


now my charms are all o'erthrown

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: The Tempest [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Pirate, At least one The Princess Bride reference, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Period-Typical Medicine, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: PART I: PROSPEROThe hold of a ship contains a mage, locked away in lead, and the power of a long-forgotten god, locked away in wood. Both come to Fjord, quartermaster of theTide's Breath, and his pirate's life opens to a power he never knew. Caleb is no stranger both to power and to being powerless, but in Fjord he encounters something different than his vicious past, and that something is trust. As the threads of fate draw tight around them, winding through ruined temples and the depths of the sea, both men must claim what is their own or else lose it forever.Also they bang.
Relationships: Brief Fjord/Captain Avantika, Fjord/Caleb Widogast
Series: The Tempest [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680481
Comments: 227
Kudos: 465





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work (and this series) would not exist without all my friends on the Critical #Goals server, including but not limited to [Bunce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark), [Lem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112), [Sera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome), and [Zalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera). Thank you all for laying the foundations for this tale, and I hope I do justice to what we all envisioned. 💧🔥

PART I: PROSPERO

> _Now my charms are all o'erthrown,_  
>  _And what strength I have's mine own,_  
>  _Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,_  
>  _I must be here confined by you,_  
>  _Or sent to Naples. Let me not,_  
>  _Since I have my dukedom got_  
>  _And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell_  
>  _In this bare island by your spell;_  
>  _But release me from my bands_  
>  _With the help of your good hands:_  
>  _Gentle breath of yours my sails_  
>  _Must fill, or else my project fails,_  
>  _Which was to please. Now I want_  
>  _Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,_  
>  _And my ending is despair,_  
>  _Unless I be relieved by prayer,_  
>  _Which pierces so that it assaults_  
>  _Mercy itself and frees all faults._  
>  _As you from crimes would pardon'd be,_  
>  _Let your indulgence set me free._

William Shakespeare, _The Tempest,_ Act V, Epilogue, l. 1-20  



	2. Prologue

The broken mast and sails of the Clovis Concord vessel trail in the cerulean ocean. Cannon smoke hangs in the air as the crew of the _Tide’s Breath_ wrestle the sailors of the _Bonadventure_ to their knees, knives held to throats. Captain Vandran strides across the gangplank, and Fjord follows, his heart pounding with the exhilaration of a battle won.

As they descend to the deck of the _Bonadventure_ , Captain Vandran crosses to the surrendering captain, his long leather coat swishing behind him as his boots clunk on the wooden planks. The Concord captain is a tall woman, sandy-haired and weathered, wearing the blue jacket of her station, and she glares up at Captain Vandran above the long knife Maken presses to her jugular. “I hope you enjoy the gallows.”

Vandran snorts. “Not for a while yet.” Bending down, he unhooks the ring of keys from her belt and tosses them behind him to Fjord, who catches them one-handed. “Clear below decks.”

“Aye, Captain.” Fjord gestures to the deck crew to follow, and they hurry after him down the stairs and into the dimness of the hold. They sweep through, cracking open crates and barrels, rummaging through trunks, looking for anything of value. Fjord crowbars open a crate with a grunt and inspects the contents: fabric, soft and in bright colors, but not particularly high-quality.

“Not a full hold,” observes Ingvas, crouching by an open crate of his own. “Must have offloaded some goods already.”

Sighing, Fjord straightens, letting the crate clatter shut. “Get what you can,” he orders. “I’ll check the brig.” Sometimes merchant ships carry prisoners on their way to trial, usually with a bounty on their head. Might still be gold in this raid after all.

Fjord descends into the depths of the ship, where the smell of salt and tar and smoke grows even stronger. As his eyes adjust, he sees one of the cells is occupied by a dark huddled man-shape. Readying his grip on his knife, Fjord approaches.

The first thing he notices is the bindings: engraved lead muzzling the man, cuffing his hands behind his back and encircling his neck, with heavy chains tethering him to a shackle in the floor. So, a spellcaster then. The second thing he notices is the ragged clothes: the prisoner’s long filthy coat, his stained breeches, his torn shirt, and the smears of dirt on his exposed chest and neck, and his matted ginger hair.

The third thing Fjord notices are his eyes, burning like coals above the lead muzzle and fixed directly on Fjord. Blue, with flecks of gold in them.

Mages make expensive but dangerous prisoners. “Hey,” says Fjord, approaching slowly. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The man watches him like a hawk, unmoving.

Sheathing his knife, Fjord grabs the captain’s ring of keys and fumbles through them until he finds the one that matches the cell. The entire time, those burning eyes stay locked on him. He opens the cell door slowly, giving the mage time to react or draw back; he knows better than to startle him. “I’m gonna let you out, but you have to promise not to attack me, okay?” Fjord holds his hands up, palms out.

Almost imperceptibly, the mage nods, chains clinking.

“All right.” Getting closer, Fjord crouches, identifying the small key that must match the lead bindings, straw bunching around his boots. This close he can smell the human stink of the mage, sweat and piss and accumulated filth. “Like I said, don’t hurt me. I’m doin’ you a favor.”

The mage doesn’t flinch when Fjord reaches out to unlock the muzzle, but he does stiffen and freeze, breath picking up slightly. With a dull clinking the metal falls away and the man gasps, his bearded jaw shiny with sweat and smeared with dirt. A few seconds later Fjord unlocks the heavy collar as well, dropping it to the straw. The mage takes another deep breath, head dropping back as he rolls his neck, eyes closed, and then his gaze snaps back to Fjord.

“You are a pirate?” he says hoarsely, accent strongly Zemnian.

“Yeah,” says Fjord. “Yeah, I’m a pirate.”

The mage sniffs. “Are you capturing me now instead?”

“Well, we’ll see about that.” To reach the mage’s wrists, which are bound behind his back, Fjord has to wedge in-between him and the cell bars. The mage leans away from him slightly, wire-tense. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but his hands look as worn as the rest of him, callused and dirty under fingerless gloves.

Fjord unlocks the cuffs, partially braced for an explosion. But all that happens is the mage sighs in relief and starts rubbing his wrists. “C’mon,” says Fjord, getting to his feet and brushing straw off his knees. He holds out a hand to help the mage up, but he stands unassisted, drawing his ragged coat around himself. “What’s your name?”

Deciding, the mage eyes him. “Caleb Widogast,” he says eventually.

“Caleb,” Fjord repeats. “You can call me Fjord.”

Eyes still narrowed warily, the mage rasps dryly, “A pleasure to meet you.”

Fjord snorts, jerking his head towards the stair, and puts a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“You are not going to cuff me?” Caleb asks, stiffening.

“You want me to?”

“ _No,_ ” says Caleb vehemently, rubbing his wrists.

“Well, behave yourself and I won’t.”

Fjord leads Caleb back up through the hold to curious looks from the other pirates. “Who’s this?” says Ingvas, hefting a crate up in his meaty arms.

“Found ourselves a mage in the brig,” says Fjord, and several pirates chuckle appreciatively. “What’d they lock you up for, anyway?”

“Piracy,” says Caleb, so dryly it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or not.

With a hand on his shoulder, Fjord marches Caleb up the stairs onto the deck. Caleb cringes at the sunlight, shielding his eyes; in the light of day he’s even filthier, clothes crusted with dried mud and soot in the creases of his skin. Fjord spots the telltale dark red of dried blood on his clothes and matted hair too.

Captain Vandran raises his eyebrows. The surviving Concord crew members, including their captain, have been stripped of valuables and bound kneeling on the deck. “Who’s this?”

“Got us a mage,” says Fjord, pushing Caleb forward. He stumbles, eyes still adjusting to the light, and Fjord grips him tight to keep him from falling. “Found him locked up underneath with enough lead to sink the ship.”

Whistling appreciatively, Captain Vandran turns to the Concord captain. “Is there a bounty on him?”

Flushed with humiliation and anger, the captain grinds out, “Not one that you could collect. He’s bound for trial in Nicodranas.”

“Well, we’ll find a use for him.” Captain Vandran nods back at the _Tide’s Breath,_ and Fjord marches Caleb across the gangplank.

Halfway across, though, Caleb balks, and Fjord has to grab him by the collar to keep him from falling into the drink. “This ain’t the place to stop,” Fjord snaps.

“My books,” says Caleb, looking back over at the ship. “There should be – when they captured me, they took my books –”

Fjord narrows his eyes. “Your spellbooks, you mean?”

“Ja.”

“They worth anything?”

Caleb gives him a dirty look. “To me. I am useless without them.”

Sniffing, Fjord considers. “Hey,” he yells, twisting to look over his shoulder. “Look for a couple of spell books, you got it?” An affirmative is shouted back, and Fjord walks Caleb back to the _Tide’s Breath._

Not long after, Ingvas and the others return with their loot, and finally Captain Vandran crosses back over, and Fjord draws the gangplank up after him. The Concord crew still kneels, bound, on the deck of their ship. “Bo’sun?” he says.

“Aye, Captain.” Ingvas steps up beside him, blond hair braided down his back.

“Sink them.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“Hands about ship!” Captain Vandran yells, striding towards the quarterdeck, and crew scrambles to their positions. Fjord hurries up the stairs after Captain Vandran, taking his place at his side at the rail and watching the crew rush about, many climbing up the rigging. The mage draws back into a corner, attempting to stay out of the way.

“Sheets and tacks, lifts and trusses!” orders Fjord, hands folded behind his back, and crew in the rigging begin to unfurl the sails. Below them, Ingvas raises his hands, face reddening in concentration, as watery fingers rise from the ocean, dragging the Concord ship down beneath the waves.

By the time the _Tide’s Breath_ is under full sail, she is the only ship in sight.

\--

Caleb keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open as the half-orc, Fjord, leads him below deck. He braces himself for the brig, but Fjord just leads him to the hold where the crew sleeps, rows of hammocks hanging from the low wooden ceiling. Two are occupied; a gravelly snore punctuates the creaking of wood and the rushing of waves. “Can I leave you here for five minutes and trust you won’t get up to any stupid shit?” says Fjord.

Sizing him up, Caleb catalogs the long knife at his side, the silvery scar that marks his upper lip, and his dark brown eyes. No tusks, he notes, and a build slighter than Caleb typically sees on half-orcs. “Ja,” he says.

“Good.” Fjord turns and leaves, taking the stairs up two at a time.

It’s not as if Caleb has anywhere to go.

The pirates aren’t going to kill him, at least. Probably. They don’t seem particularly intent on locking him up, either. Maybe if he convinces them of his usefulness, they won’t turn him back in to the Concord. There’s always a need for casters on ships.

Heavy bootsteps sound on the wooden planks, and Caleb turns quickly. A very large man descends wearily, dressed in earthy gray and black, with bits of shell braided into his long blond hair and beard. Bo’sun, the captain called him. The druid.

“Hi,” sighs the druid, holding up one meaty hand. “Name’s Ingvas. I’m the bo’sun on this ship.”

Cautiously, Caleb returns, “Hi.”

“Quartermaster sent me down here, thought you might appreciate a bit of a wash.”

There’s a lot to unpack there. Caleb starts with, “Quartermaster?”

“Yeah, Fjord.”

“Ah.” That explains why the half-orc was obeyed unquestioningly. Caleb wonders if they brought his books over; he didn’t see them, but they might be in one of those crates. “A wash?”

“Yup.” Ingavs grabs a bucket, water flowing from his palms into it, and hands it to Caleb. The half-full bucket sloshes. “Here,” and Ingvas hands Caleb a reasonably clean scarf before stepping back and falling heavily into one of the hammocks, which creaks dangerously under him. “I’m just. Need a rest. Think ‘m done for the day.”

Caleb sets the bucket down on top of a barrel, uneasily aware of how precious every drop of water is. He must be filthy indeed if the pirates are going to the trouble of letting him wash.

 _Or maybe the first mate has other ideas_ , says a little voice in his head, and Caleb pauses, considering. Well, he’s put up with worse.

“Could I have a little privacy –” says Caleb, turning to Ingvas, and discovers the druid fast asleep, sprawled in his hammock. An ursine snore rises up from him.

Good enough. Stripping down to his waist, Caleb wets the scarf and wipes the worst of the grime off his body. Gets a hand down his pants and manages to clean a bit down there too. He plunges his hands and face into the water left in the bucket, turning it rust-murky, and runs wet fingers through the snarls in his hair. Setting the bucket down on a nearby barrel, Caleb considers the rows of hammocks swaying with the rocking of the ship. Is he supposed to stay here? Is this to be his new cell?

“If you’re tired, you can kip in one of the hammocks here,” says Fjord, descending the stairs again. “They ain’t assigned. Well, ‘cept that one by the post there, but that’s just because Emi fights anyone who tries to take it.”

There is a pile of what looks to be sacks of grain in the corner. “I think I will just sleep on the floor, thanks,” says Caleb stiffly.

Shrugging, Fjord picks up the used water bucket, peering into its contents with a sniff. “Your choice. Long as you do what you’re told no one’ll give you a hard time.”

Caleb’s mind is sharp and alert, but his body protests its mistreatment from the past week with a deep weariness. Sleep for a bit, he decides. Then eat, and see if they have my spellbooks. Then get Frumpkin back.

Nodding to Fjord, he crosses to the grain sack pile and sinks down, drawing his coat around himself. Could be worse. At least it’s not a jail cell, or a gutter. Curling up into a semi-comfortable position, Caleb rests his head and closes his eyes.

Could always be worse.

\--

“Sixteen bolts of silk, two bolts of velvet, one bolt of gold brocade,” Fjord lists off, standing in front of Captain Vandran as he bows his gray head over his ledger. “The rest are wool or dyed serge, twenty-two crates total.”

“Not bad,” says Captain Vandran, his lead nib scratching over the paper. “Any jewelry?”

“Bo’sun says they dumped it overboard before we boarded.”

Captain Vandran sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Damn. What about that mage you found? How much is he worth?”

“Difficult to say.” Fjord shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking underneath him. “We never got an answer out of the crew. But I’m guessin’ about five hundred. Problem’ll be turnin’ him into the Concord without gettin’ arrested ourselves.”

Grunting, Captain Vandran frowns down at the ledger, tapping his pencil on the dark figures scratched on the parchment. “Five hundred’s a lot,” he mutters.

Blue-gold eyes, burning into Fjord’s, sharp and hungry. “Captain?” he says, before he can think better. “Can I offer a suggestion?”

He looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

Well, he’s done it now. “Might be more useful to us as a mage than the gold.”

Captain Vandran’s eyebrows climb higher. “You’re sayin’ we should keep him?” he says.

“Maybe.” Fjord shrugs. “They had some heavy-duty bindings on him, must be a pretty high-caliber spellcaster.”

Leaning back in his seat, Captain Vandran folds his arms, chewing the inside of his cheek as he scrutinizes Fjord. “We already have Ingvas.”

“Ingvas took down one ship and filled half a bucket and he’s out for the day,” counters Fjord. “Besides, I think this guy’s a different kind of caster, he wanted his books pretty badly. Maybe he’s had some kind of training.”

Captain Vandran looks over his shoulder to the locked, lead-and-iron bound chest at the foot of his book, where Caleb’s two spellbooks (among other things) are locked safely away. “Well, we’re stuck with him until Darktow anyway,” he says. “Might as well see if he can earn his keep.”

Satisfaction curls up under Fjord’s breastbone. “Aye, Captain.”

“Anything else?” he says, closing his ledger and pulling a key out of his vest to lock it.

“No.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

\--

Caleb awakes in the creaking dim of the ship’s hold, the scent of salt and tar and dusty grain filling his nostrils. Instinctively, he reaches for Frumpkin before finding only empty space, and he sighs. Groaning, Caleb climbs to his feet, adjusting to the pitch and yaw of the ship. Hearty snores rise up from where Ingvas still lies in his hammock, one large hand hanging over the edge. Slipping past him, Caleb climbs up the stairs onto the deck and into the light of the setting sun.

While not humming with activity like earlier, the deck is by no means deserted. Caleb spots one pirate up in the crow’s nest, two more involved with the sails, a handful sitting in a circle and playing cards, and Fjord up at the wheel, leaning on it with his arms folded, staring directly into the setting sun.

Caleb climbs the stairs up to the quarterdeck one by one, coming to stand an arm’s length beside Fjord, who turns and raises an eyebrow at him. “You cleaned up,” Fjord remarks, and then his mouth twists uncomfortably.

Choosing to ignore this, Caleb says, “You are going to go blind, looking at the sun like that.”

Snorting, Fjord turns back to the sunset, the fiery light bronzing his dark hair and skin. “Pretty sure that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

Pretty sure it’s not, Caleb thinks. “I am no fool,” he says bluntly. “You did not rescue me out of the kindness of your hearts. You expect something in return.”

“Well, we ain’t a charity operation,” says Fjord genially, resting his elbows on the ship’s wheel. “Gonna have to pay for your room and board somehow.”

“I have skills,” says Caleb quickly. He can prove it, just please, let him have his books back. “I can be very useful in a fight.”

Fjord appraises him, and Caleb holds himself stiffly, head high, ignoring the prickle down his spine. “Yeah? What can you do?”

“Give me my books and I’ll show you.”

Chuckling knowingly, Fjord looks over the ship, his gaze lingering on the pirates in the rigging. “Maybe.”

The ocean glints like molten copper, the sky hueing from bright gold around the sun to a glowing orange to a deep turquoise behind them. Far off on the glistening horizon, a tiny dark spot shimmers against setting sun – an approaching island, perhaps. “Where are we going?” Caleb asks.

“Darktow.” Fjord’s eyes flash amber as he glances at Caleb. “You heard of it?”

“The pirate city? Ja.” He’ll probably be safer there than anywhere in the Empire, Caleb thinks darkly. “I have heard of it.”

“Should be there in a few –” Fjord stops, frowning, and pulls a small spyglass off his belt. Putting it up to his eye, he peers at the horizon. “Emi!” Fjord bellows up at the crow’s nest. “You see that?”

The pirate lookout yells back something unintelligible, and Fjord grumbles under his breath. Shoving the spyglass back in his belt, Fjord rushes off from the quarterdeck and towards the mainmast, leaving Caleb by the wheel. Caleb eyes the spoked ring of wood warily as it creaks, turning slightly, but it shows no signs of spinning crazily out of control. Turning back to the horizon, Caleb squints at the dark spot. He still can’t make it out, but it’s gotten larger.

A tall half-elf rushes up onto the quarterdeck, her long coarse black hair held back by a scarf, and she frowns at Caleb. “Who the hell are you?”

“The, ah – the mage,” says Caleb hoarsely, taking a step back. “The prisoner.”

She eyes him as she takes hold of the wheel. Pox scars mark her olive skin. “Get back below decks and don’t make a nuisance of yourself, then.”

The cutlass hanging from her belt is as long as Caleb’s forearm. He withdraws, descending back to the main deck as Fjord leaps down from the rigging. “Hands about deck!” Fjord roars, the card-playing pirates jumping to their feet as Fjord strides past them. “Concord privateer on the horizon!”

They’re looking for me, Caleb thinks automatically, his hand going to the charm around his neck. It’s still there. He flattens himself against the cabin wall as the gray-haired captain bursts out, brow furrowed. “Quartermaster, report!” he snaps.

Fjord strides to his side, holding out the spyglass, and the captain brings it to his eye. “They’re approaching fast, they’ve got full sail and the wind on their side,” says Fjord. “Even if we turn they’ll overtake us.”

“And they’ve got the sun behind them,” grunts the captain. “How many cannon?”

“Can’t tell yet, sir.”

“A Concord brig has eighteen cannon and two long guns,” recites Caleb. “Though maybe with how fast this is moving, it is not one.”

Both the captain and Fjord turn and look at him. “You got good eyes?” says the captain.

Caleb nods.

“Here,” and the captain hands the spyglass to him. His weathered skin, lumpy ear, and crooked nose speak to Caleb of as many years spent in a fighting ring as on the sea. “What do you make of it?”

Bringing the spyglass up to his eye, Caleb squints, scanning the horizon until the ship appears through the distorted lens. Cold fear prickles his skin. “That’s not a brig,” he rasps. “That’s a man-of-war.”

Both men stare at him. “You sure?” growls the captain.

Handing the spyglass back to him, Caleb nods.

“Bring her about,” orders the captain to Fjord. “Get the cannons loaded, and wake that bastard Ingvas up. Damned if we’re not going down without a fight.” And he runs up the stairs to the quarterdeck, boots clomping on the wooden stairs.

Fjord departs in the other direction, bellowing orders, and Caleb draws back against the cabin wall again, half-under the shelter of the deck. A full man-of-war, hot on their trail, not even a full day after Caleb was seized from the _Bonadventure._ It cannot possibly be a coincidence.

The ship turns hard to the right, deck tilting, and Caleb seizes the stair railing to keep from falling, the ropes and boards groaning against the weight of the vessel. Sea spray dashes up against the side, and Caleb regains his balance as the ship levels itself, now heading southeast. The dark spot on the horizon has begun to take the form of a ship, its sails glowing with the sunlight from behind.

Pirates rush up on deck, armed, some shooting odd looks at Caleb. Ingvas stumbles up with them, Fjord at his side. “Get more wind in our sails!” barks the captain.

“Aye, Captain,” says Ingvas, raising his hands, and his face reddens and contorts with effort. But only a stiff breeze rushes past, ruffling Caleb’s hair, and half a minute later Ingvas drops his hands, gasping, and braces himself on his knees. “I can’t,” he puffs. “Captain, I don’t –”

The man-of-war on the horizon has turned, angling to intercept the pirate ship’s new course. “Try harder!” barks the captain.

Muttering under his breath, Caleb does the math. The man-of-war is moving faster than they are. It most likely has three times as many guns, and twice as many men. And unless Caleb introduces a new variable into the equation, the outcome is inevitable.

Turning, Caleb runs up the stairs to the quarterdeck two at a time. “Captain,” he pants. “My books. Give me my books.”

His hands on the wheel, the black-haired half-elf at his left shoulder, the captain raises a craggly eyebrow at Caleb. “What?”

“My books!” Caleb extends an imperative hand at him, there is no time to argue, their lives are at stake – “Please, we do not have long –”

“What d’you want your books for?” Fjord demands from behind him, and Caleb whips around.

“I can – look, you are outgunned, outmanned, no hope of winning this fight,” snaps Caleb, pointing at the rapidly-approaching man-of-war. “I can _help –_ ”

Without hesitation, the captain reaches into his vest and pulls out a small ring of keys on a string around his neck. Taking them off, he tosses the keys to Fjord. “Go.”

Fjord catches the keys out of the air and turns, Caleb hurrying after him back down the stairs and into the captain’s quarters, a compact, tidy cabin of dark wood. Dragging a lead-bound chest forward, Fjord unlocks and throws it open, grabbing out two worn, blessedly-familiar books. “These?”

Caleb snatches them out of his hands, flipping through one frantically. “Do you have my components pouch?”

Fjord frowns up at him from his crouch by the chest. “Your what?”

“My pouch, it has all the ingredients for my spells, it is leather –”

“You never said anything about no pouch!”

Hissing, Caleb stuffs his books back under his jackets. “Do you have bat guano and sulfur?”

Fjord stares at him.

A dull boom sounds outside. Caleb counts one – two – three – four – and then a crash sounds and the ship shudders.

“ _Shit_ ,” swears Fjord, leaping to his feet. “What do you need?”

Already digging in his pockets fruitlessly, Caleb mutters, “Guano and sulfur, but black powder will do in a pinch –”

“It gotta be bat shit, or will any shit do?” demands Fjord.

Now is not the time Caleb would have picked to experiment, but – “Let’s find out.”

As they sprint down the stairs into the hold, another cannon fires, the ball whistling past this time. “I need black powder!” barks Fjord at the three pirates rushing about the gun deck, two humans and a half-elf. “Fast!”

The half-elf, his face smeared with black powder and brown eyes sharp, runs up and slams a paper-wrapped charge into Fjord’s outstretched hand. “Here, Fjord.”

“This enough?” says Fjord to Caleb, face taut with urgency.

“Plenty.”

A third and fourth volley fire as Caleb and Fjord rush to the galley, and one misses, and the other hits with an ominous creaking and shattering from above. Cannon charge clutched in one hand, Caleb rushes past Fjord to the two chickens flapping and squawking in their wicker cage in the corner, droppings coating the woven bottom of the cage. “This had better work,” Caleb mutters, scraping up bird shit into his hand.

He gets two steps towards the stairs when another cannonball hits and this time the impact sends both Caleb and Fjord sprawling, Caleb sliding across the floor with the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Scheiβe,” snarls Caleb, staggering to his feet, the chicken shit and gunpowder clenched tightly in his fist. Get to the deck, he tells himself. Go.

When he makes it back up, the sunset light has turned bloody and broken pieces of wood scatter the deck, the railings blown wide open above the bow, and the man-of-war looms, charging through the waves that smash against its paneled hull. Caleb does not waste time but pulls one of his books out, kneeling on the floor as he flips through pages until he gets to the spell he wants. Another cannonball whistles overhead, tearing a hole through one of the sails, and pirates shout in alarm. Tearing the paper of the cannon charge, Caleb spills black powder into his hand, grinding his palms together as he mutters the arcane words, and the smear of shit and powder in his hands grows warm. 

Caleb raises his head, smiling, and lets the flames fly.

A massive fireball streaks from his hands, screaming towards the man-of-war, and detonates on its deck in a burst to rival the sun. Caleb barely thinks before sending a second one, lower, and this one hits the stern. When the flames clear, it leaves a burning hole in its wake, and the ship lists.

“Holy shit!” yells one of the pirates, and Caleb allows himself a grin of triumph, smoke filling his nostrils, and then he hears the screams on the deck of the man-of-war. A flailing, flame-covered body plummets from the deck into the ocean.

The smoke coils in Caleb’s nose and throat, filling them, choking him. His chest tightens. His gaze spins dizzily to the wooden planks in front of him, the wooden planks under his hands, the wooden floorboards of his house, the smoke fills his throat, he can’t breathe, the screams fill his ears, he can’t hear. He can’t breathe. He can’t hear.

“Hey – Caleb. Caleb!” Rough hands grab the front of his jacket, shaking him, and Caleb gasps and clutches at the arm holding him upright. Wiry muscles harden under battered leather. “You with me?”

Caleb tries but cannot speak through the smoke in his throat.

The grip of a cool hand on the side of his face shocks him, and Caleb flinches away, blinking to clear his streaming eyes. Fjord’s face swims into view, concern knitting his dark brows together. “Aye,” pants Caleb, his fingers knotting in Fjord’s sleeve. “Did – did we –” He glances over Fjord’s shoulder to see the man-of-war falling back behind them, not sunk but crippled.

“Almost,” says Fjord. “Think you can manage a couple more of those?”

Clearing his throat, Caleb looks down at his filthy palms. “Get me more chicken shit and powder and I will see what I can do.”

\--

Once the sun dips below the horizon, the darkness of the open ocean becomes velvety, stars flung across the sky. The lantern on the prow of their longboat casts a circle of oily light as Caspa, the only other half-orc on the _Tide’s Breath_ , rows it through the wreckage of the man-of-war, floating planks and scraps of sail being nudged aside. Fjord sits beside Captain Vandran, keeping an eye out for anything salvageable, but he can’t help glancing at Caleb as well. The mage perches up by the light, his stained coat wrapped tightly around him, his arms folded and shoulders hunched.

Fjord’s memory skips back to earlier on the _Tide’s Breath_ , and Caleb’s little – moment? Fit? Fjord’s not even sure what to call it. Just that he turned around to cheer Caleb for his fiery strikes and found Caleb kneeling on the deck, pale and sweaty and staring at nothing. At least he snapped out of it okay, although watching Caleb now, Fjord wonders if whatever haunted him is still rattling around in his brain.

“What about that?” says Captain Vandran, breaking Fjord from his thoughts. “Caspa, take us over.”

The muscles in her broad shoulders clenching and rippling, Caspa steers the longboat towards the crate Captain Vandran pointed out. Holding out a long pole, Captain Vandran attempts to steer the crate towards him. “Feels heavy,” he grunts, nudging the loot towards him. “Could be food, maybe –”

“There!” rasps Caleb suddenly, pointing. “Over there, what is that?”

Leaning over the edge of the boat, Fjord peers for what Caleb sees, but can’t make it out among the flotsam. “What do you see?”

“A small box – there! There!” Caleb hangs onto the prow to keep from falling as he tracks the bobbing movement of the box with his finger. “It feels magical.”

Captain Vandran nods to Caspa, who sighs and rows in the direction Caleb points. Now Fjord can make it out, a small, flat box of dark wood floating among the torn planks. Gold engravings gleam faintly on its surface as the lantern light slides over it. Leaning down, Caleb trails his fingers through the dark water and scoops the box up, the sleeve of his coat dripping.

“What is it?” asks Captain Vandran, trying to see over Caleb’s shoulder.

Sitting back in the prow, Caleb tries to open the box and makes a soft _tchah_ of frustration. “It is locked,” he says. “One moment.”

Pulling a book out of his coat, Caleb flips through it, frowns, mutters under his breath, and taps the top of the box with his knuckle. A sudden loud sound of knocking on wood reverberates around them, making Fjord jump. “What was that?” demands Captain Vandran.

“Just a spell,” says Caleb. He unlatches and opens the box easily, but this only makes his frown deepen. “It should not have been that easy, to be honest.”

“Well, I ain’t complaining,” mutters Captain Vandran. “What’s in there?”

Fjord cranes his neck, trying to see, but whatever’s in the box is so small and embedded he can’t catch a glimpse as Caleb wordlessly hands it to Captain Vandran. “Huh,” says Captain Vandran, shoulders hunched protectively around the box, and snaps it shut. “All right, let’s keep looking.”

They spend several more hours rowing among the debris, picking up a few barrels of food and intact cases that might contain valuables. Despite burning with curiosity, Fjord waits until they’re back on the _Tide’s Breath_ and Captain Vandran is heading back to his cabin to ask, “So what’s in there?”

“Never you mind,” says Captain Vandran. “Get the food down to the galley and see what’s in those crates.”

Frustration knots tight in Fjord’s chest, right under his breastbone, but he takes a deep breath and musters a tight smile. “Aye aye, Captain.”


	3. Act I, Scene 2

The roiling gray storm clouds and rain hammering against the windows of Captain Vandran’s cabin mirror the turbulence inside Fjord. “That ain’t – we can’t just – it ain’t fair to just hand Caleb over like that!” he snaps, returning Captain Vandran’s glower. “Not after he saved all of us –”

“First of all, it’s not ‘we,’ it’s ‘I,’” retorts Captain Vandran, bushy eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. “You’re the quartermaster, not the captain –”

“Which I _earned_ , like you keep reminding me –”

“And second of all, there ain’t no ‘fair,’ we’re _pirates_ ,” snarls Captain Vandran. “I got a responsibility to my crew –”

Taking a deep breath, Fjord exhales slowly through his nose. “Caleb blew up an entire man-of-war on our tail,” he says. “That alone is worth whatever cut of the bounty we can collect.”

Captain Vandran sighs heavily, resting his elbows on his compact cabin desk. “You ever considered they were only on our tail because we had him on the ship?”

“I…” Fjord opens his mouth, thinks, closes it, and thinks some more. “You mean he… set us up?”

“No, I think we stole someone very, very valuable and the Concord wants him back.” Lacing his fingers together, Captain Vandran looks up at Fjord. “And that makes him a liability.”

 _A responsibility,_ Fjord wants to argue, but he bites his tongue. “We can’t just turn him in after he saved all of us,” he says. “Yeah, we’re pirates, but we got a code.”

“A code, huh?” Captain Vandran’s lips press together grumpily, but he can’t hide the canny glint in his eye. “And you abide by that?”

“I try to.”

Another sigh rumbles out of Captain Vandran as he leans back in his chair, scratching at his beard. “Well, can’t turn him in at Darktow, so he’ll be around for a little while at least.” Captain Vandran glances up at Fjord sharply. “Don’t forget, though, whose decision it is.”

“I won’t.”

Fjord’s halfway out the door when Captain Vandran comes up beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re wrong about him,” he says quietly, paternal warmth in his blue-grey eyes. “And you sticking up for this wizard like that is part of why I made you quartermaster. But I got to think about more than just him, or just you. That’s what being captain means.”

Fjord nods once, steady under the hand on his shoulder. “Aye, captain.”

“Good man.”

\--

They blow into Darktow on the heels of a storm, the deck dark with rain under Caleb’s feet but fluffy white clouds chasing across a bright blue sky. Caleb leans on the rail, watching the island approach as the wind drags at his hair, the ship rising and falling with each ocean swell. They pass over a particularly large wave, the ship hitting the water with a crash, and Caleb’s heart leaps in his chest with a strange sense of freedom.

“Hey,” says a deep-voiced drawl behind him, and Caleb turns. Fjord approaches, the wind whipping through his black hair and tugging at the loose collar of his shirt. “We’re gonna be at Darktow in a couple hours, and dock for a few days at least. You’re free to disembark, but I recommend stickin’ close to one of us and not goin’ off on your own.”

Caleb narrows his eyes, not pleased at the prospect of constant supervision. “Are you worried I will run away?”

Sighing, Fjord joins him at the rail. “No, we just don’t want you getting’ kidnapped by someone lookin’ for a ship’s mage,” he says gravely, leaning on his elbows. “Magic is a valuable thing, out on the sea.”

“Protecting your assets, I see,” murmurs Caleb. His stomach curls uncomfortably. Better to belong to this ship’s crew than to be in a Concord dungeon, he reminds himself.

Fjord glances at him sharply, one eyebrow raised. Above them, the sails ripple loudly with the wind, wood and ropes creaking. “Listen,” he says, glancing around to see if anyone’s nearby. Though the deck bustles with activity, there is no one near the bow where Caleb and Fjord are. “I know we’ve taken you on, but there’s nothin’ sayin’ you have to stay with us,” mutters Fjord. “You can go on, get a different ship out of Darktow, make it back to – to wherever you want to go.” He clears his throat, squinting at the horizon. “If you want.”

Caleb watches him intently, trying to piece out the trap in his words. “Thank you,” he says slowly.

Fjord clears his throat again, and is Caleb imagining it or does he look faintly disappointed? “Don’t mention it.” He glances at Caleb sharply. “No, I mean literally don’t mention it, Captain doesn’t know I’m telling you this.”

Interesting. Caleb raises his eyebrows. “Going against your captain’s wishes?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Fjord says, “Not exactly.” By his glower, Caleb doubts he will elaborate further.

“Well,” says Caleb, “I appreciate the offer.” He’s going to leave, of course he will, though he wonders where to go after that. Slipping off of one pirate brig to end up press-ganged onto another does not seem like a particularly efficient means of escape. The Menagerie Coast has a bounty on his head. The Empire – well.

There’s no going back there.

\--

It’s the smell of Darktow that always gets Fjord first: woodsmoke and refuse and ocean salt and fermentation all combining into one potent blend. Fjord inhales deeply as they descend the gangplank onto the dock, filling his lungs. “Ahh,” he sighs, and grins back over his shoulder at the crew. “Smells like home.”

Caleb wrinkles his hooked nose. “It stinks. And coming from me, that is saying something.”

“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” chuckles Ingvas, clapping a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “What d’you say, Fjord? The Bloated Cup and his first pint of grog?”

“Business first,” snaps Captain Vandran, striding past them. “Bo’sun, get the ship unloaded. Quartermaster, check in with the dockmaster and then deliver the Plank King his due. Wizard, Caspa, with me.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” chorus Fjord and Ingvas. Stopping at the foot of the gangplank, Fjord frowns after Captain Vandran’s retreating back and sturdy stride, Caleb’s shoulders hunched under his ragged brown coat and his boots sinking into the sludge as he trudges after him. Caspa towers over both of them, her long hair knotted down her back. “Captain seem tense to you?” mutters Fjord to Ingvas.

Ingvas’ broad brow wrinkles as he considers. “Maybe a little. What, you think something’s up?”

“Maybe.” Why would he take Caleb with him, of all people? Surely not to turn him in…

“Wonder if he’s doing something needs back-up,” Ingvas muses. “Since he took Caspa too.”

Well, when he puts it that way, it makes sense, even if it’s not reassuring. If Captain Vandran needs both the ship’s best fighter and the new deadly mage with him, wherever he’s heading can’t be good. Fjord gnaws on his lower lip over the stubs of his regrowing tusks, watching them until they disappear into the bustle of Darktow streets –

Ingvas’ hand comes down heavy on his shoulder. “If Captain needed us to worry, he’d say so,” he says, turning back up the gangplank. “Come on. We’ve a job to do.” And with a sigh, Fjord follows.

\--

“You’re probably wonderin’ why I brought you with me, huh?” says the captain, raising an eyebrow at Caleb. His eyes are the slatey blue-grey of the sea, his weathered skin lined around the mouth and eyes.

He hasn’t slapped lead cuffs on Caleb yet, which is an encouraging sign. “I suspect you are about to tell me,” says Caleb dryly.

Captain Vandran snorts, striding purposefully through the muck, ragged passerby giving Caspa’s bulk a wide berth. “Remember that little box you found the other night?”

Hard not to, when just touching the thing made his fingertips tingle with power, and the crystal inside whispered tantalizingly to him of dark things unknown. “Ja.”

Eyes sharp as flint, Vandran fixes his gaze on him. “Can I count on you, Widogast?”

You are right not to trust me, Caleb wants to say, though that is a great way to get himself killed. “Yes.”

“Good.”

They pass a cross-street that leads out of the city, winding precariously up the dark cliff face to a wide torch-lit platform that overlooks the sea. Caspa frowns after the road as they pass it. “Captain?” she says. “We’re not going to the Plank King?”

“No.”

“But – why?”

“Because we ain’t.” Vandran’s scowl ends the conversation, and Caspa glares at Caleb like it’s his fault. They walk deeper into Darktow to where the buildings lean over the streets, architectural pastiche built on whim and convenience rather than reason. Caleb spots a ship’s bow repurposed as a balcony here, stolen windows from a Zemnian cathedral there. The thoroughfare opens into a wide square, filled with shabby but multicolored stalls, the vendors hawking their food and trinkets and monkeys and parrots and all sorts of assorted things. Caleb keeps a keen eye out for any magic shops, and a couple look promising. Maybe – maybe – he can get his cat back.

Vandran leads them down a side street, and then another, and then another, each one getting narrower and emptier. That he doesn’t want to be watched or followed is painfully obvious in his quick steps and nervous glances behind him, and Caleb itches to cast some sort of stealth spell on them, or at least tell him to _stop_.

They eventually halt at a door painted a fading robin’s egg blue, the windows on either side tightly shuttered. Vandran knocks on the door three times and steps back, hands folded behind his back and mouth pressed into a flat line.

The sudden sense of unfriendly eyes on him makes Caleb freeze, angling so he can look at the street without turning his head too much. The only other people nearby are three women talking with each other across the street and several doors down. One of them, an elf with orange-red hair, throws her head back in a full-throated laugh.

The blue door cracks open, revealing a pair of bright eyes behind it, at waist height, and green fingers with long nails on the weathered wood. “Yes?”

Vandran clears his throat. “I need to speak to Oppan.”

With a creak, the door opens wider. A goblin stands on the threshold, big pointed ears sticking out from her lank black hair and her eyes bulbous and yellow over a porcelain doll’s mask that covers the lower half of her face. “What do you want with him?”

“I need to talk to him.”

Caspa folds her arms over her chest. “Let us through, little girl,” she rumbles.

Eyes narrowed, the goblin hisses behind her mask, but she steps back to let them in. With one last glance at the still-conversing women, Caleb follows Caspa and Vandran into the dim, musty interior of the building. The golden eyes of the goblin track him intently. “Follow me,” she says, and leads them up rickety stairs to another door, which she knocks on. “Oppan?” she calls, shrill voice muffled by her mask. “There’s a _gentleman_ here to see you.”

Chuckling wryly, Vandran steps forward. “Not a gentleman, just an old friend.”

This second door opens, and the smell of incense and chemical smoke hits Caleb like a wave, the horribly familiar scent of a wizard’s den. Rocking back on his heels, it takes him a moment to focus on the man standing in the doorway – a human, with long salt-and-pepper hair and a clever goatee around a clever mouth, and wing-like eyebrows over clever eyes. “Erik,” he says, and grins, baring ivory teeth. “Been a long time.”

“Been away a long time,” rumbles Vandran. “Got something to show you.”

“Oooh.” Interest lights Oppan’s eyes, and he gestures Vandran and his companions forward. “And you brought company.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

As Caleb steps through the door, he locks eyes through Oppan, and a spark of acknowledgement lights in them, one wizard to another. Oppan’s pointed gaze travels over Caleb’s shabby coat and muddy boots, and the corner of his mouth curls slightly. “I see.”

Caleb eyes him back, assessing the likelihood of whether this Oppan is a threat. His navy-blue robe, though old and worn, is of good make, and heavy rings adorn his fingers. The sitting room he ushers them all into is crammed with magical devices and flasks, a golden potion smoking slightly in an open decanter on one table, flickering candles stuck into a humanoid skull on another. If he’s practicing in Darktow, he’s probably not eager to cross paths with an Empire Volstrucker any time soon.

Caleb can let him live.

“So,” says Oppan, settling himself in a high-backed chair. “What have you come here for?”

Sitting down, Vandran pulls the salvaged wooden box out of his coat pocket and sets it on the little table between him and Oppan. Caspa places herself at Vandran’s left shoulder, and Caleb hovers behind them. Though he would very much like to cast a spell and sense what in this room is actually magical, if anything, he suspects Oppan would not take kindly to that.

“Well.” Oppan’s eyebrows raise as he eyes the box on the table. “May I?”

Vandran nods, folding his arms over his chest.

Delicately, Oppan opens the box, revealing the golden cats-eye crystal within. Even without touching it, Caleb can sense the minute vibrations coming off of it, faint magical striations on the edge of his consciousness. It seems Oppan senses something more, because he pales, immediately closing the box lid. “Has the Plank King seen this?”

“No,” says Vandran, with stony finality. “I came straight to you.”

“How did you _find_ it?” 

“Blew up a Concord man-of-war,” says Vandran. “Well. He did,” and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Caleb.

Caleb flushes, not liking the attention being drawn to his abilities. “They had quite a lot of gunpowder on board,” he says hoarsely. “It was not difficult.”

“Indeed.” Oppan raises an appraising eyebrow. “And this… _crystal_ was part of the plunder?”

Vandran nods. “Aye.”

Sighing heavily, Oppan pushes the little wooden box back towards Vandran. “I would get rid of this as soon as possible,” he says in a low voice. “Preferably _not_ on this island.”

The ominous words leave Vandran unfazed. “How much is it worth?”

Oppan spreads his hands, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “To some people? Maybe a handful of gold. But to the right – _wrong_ – person?” His bright gaze moves from Vandran to Caleb. “A fortune.”

“What is it, then?” asks Caleb. “If it is both so valuable and so dangerous.”

Before Oppan has a chance to explain, Vandran cuts him off, sweeping the box back towards him and inside his coat. “So you won’t sell it, then?”

“I? No,” says Oppan, with half a laugh. “I want no part in that.”

But what _is_ it, Caleb wants to demand. Why does an unremarkable pirate sorcerer know but he doesn’t –

“All right,” says Vandran, getting to his feet. “Thanks.”

“Come back any time.” Oppan smiles, the wide sleeve of his robe sweeping as he gestures farewell. “Just don’t bring that with you.”

Grunting, Vandran takes his leave. The goblin girl ushers them out, her eyes once again never leaving Caleb, but she closes the door behind them before he can turn and ask her name. Probably for the best.

The three women are still outside as Vandran, Caleb, and Caspa pass, and they turn to watch them. “Hello, Vandran,” says the redheaded elf, her Nicodranian accent curling around the syllables, a glint in her eyes. “Nice to see you back again so soon.” Her gaze flicks to Caleb, and she smiles like a pouncing cat. The other two women with her appraise the group coolly; one wears a long black coat and has golden hair that falls in curls past her shoulders, while the other stands head and shoulders above both, her arms swelling with muscles to rival Caspa’s, and her dark hair knotted and matted into braids. She meets Caleb’s eyes with a flat expression that sends a shiver down his spine.

Caspa raises her chin, posturing, and the tall woman glances at her with a flicker of interest. “Avantika,” says Vandran, and touches the brim of an imaginary hat on his head. “Likewise.”

Avantika’s smile widens. “Got time later for a drink?” 

“Hm,” snorts Vandran. “Maybe.”

\--

Fjord counts out twenty-two silver and five gold carefully, double-checking the logbook in front of him to make sure he got his figures right. “Here,” he says, handing the coins up to Caleb from his seat behind the small table. “That’s your share of the loot.”

The metal gleaming in his palm, Caleb raises an eyebrow at Fjord. “My own cut, huh? Am I part of the crew?”

“Well – I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t put it like that.” There’s not even much room for anyone else in the little ship’s cabin Fjord does his quartermaster business out of, but he can’t help a guilty glance around. “But seeing as how you saved all our asses from that man-of-war, I figure you deserve it as much as anyone else.”

Caleb turns a gold coin over pensively, his fingertips sliding over the embossed surface. “Thank you,” he says.

This is the second time Caleb’s thanked Fjord for giving him what he’s owed, and it makes Fjord’s insides twist with a funny pity. “You don’t – you don’t have to thank me, you know.”

“No?” murmurs Caleb, still toying with the gold coin. It’s an Empire piece, the profile of King Bertrand Dwendal stamped upon it. “Surely I owe you something else, then.”

“No, you don’t – you don’t owe me anythin’, that’s the point.” Fjord frowns at him. “You saved all of us from that man-of-war, the least I can do is treat you like anyone else on the crew.”

Eyes blue as gems with golden sparks like fire flash to meet Fjord’s. “You take responsibility for me, then.”

Fjord can’t deny it when it’s the same word he wanted to throw back at Captain Vandran. “I do, yeah,” he admits, looking squarely up at Caleb. “I took you out of that brig.”

“So that is what I owe you, then,” Caleb rasps. “A life debt.”

“What? No,” protests Fjord. “Caleb, not everythin’ in life is a transaction.”

“No?” The coins disappear into Caleb’s closed fist with a flash, a smile curling the corners of his lips as he pockets the money. “That has not been my experience,” he says, and leaves.

\--

As promised, Ingvas takes Caleb to the favored pub, the Bloated Cup, and it is exactly as Caleb expected: a two-storied, heavy-timbered building filled with raucous laughter and drinking songs, sawdust on the floor soaking up spilled ale and grease, brightly-dressed prostitutes hanging off the second-story railing and laughing down at the pirates below, who whistle and cheer up at them.

Turning his pewter tankard around in his hands, Caleb surveys the room with wry interest. While he wouldn’t want to spend every night here, the boisterous energy in the room has undeniable appeal.

“Aye, you thirsty bastards, here’s another round!” crows the master gunner, a dark-haired half-elf named Sabian, and slides brimming steins across the table planks at the crew. Next to Caleb, Ingvas picks up his mug and cheers before taking a hearty gulp. “To another successful voyage!”

“Hear, hear,” says Fjord, and raises his mug back. Winking at Caleb, he knocks back a drink. “Caleb? Another round?”

“I am good, thank you.” Caleb quirks his lips in an answering smile, one hand over his still-full tankard. Entertaining as it might be to be here, he knows better than to drink with strangers in a strange town.

Sabian falls into the seat next to Fjord, his shoulder knocking into his, and Caleb doesn’t miss how Fjord unconsciously pulls away. “And to Caleb!” Sabian turns his catlike grin on Caleb, gold rings dangling from his long ears. “The new hero and savior of the _Tide’s Breath._ Destroyer of Concord warships!”

Flushing red, Caleb hunches his shoulders. “You don’t have to shout it,” he mutters.

“Why not?” Eyes glinting wickedly, Sabian leans forward. “Afraid someone will get jealous?”

Not exactly, no. Caleb stares stonily back. “Are you?”

“Of that kind of firepower? Absolutely. If I could just –” and Sabian gestures an explosion, cheeks puffing as he makes the sound effect. “That’d be wicked.”

Well, thinks Caleb, get yourself force-fed to a power-hungry archmage and maybe you will too _._ He manages a tight smile.

“Hey, where’s Captain?” Ingvas looks around, frowning. “Sabian, wasn’t he with you?”

“Nah, he vanished a couple of hours ago, thought he was off doing – Ay! Captain!”

A broad grin splitting Sabian’s face, he raises his tankard up at the balcony where Vandran emerges from one of the rooms, hair and clothing disheveled, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he loops an arm around Avantika’s waist, pulling her closer to him. With a sly glance at his crew, Vandran yanks Avantika into a hearty kiss, swinging her around and dipping her as the crew whoops and cheers, Ingvas pounding one fist on the table. “Captain!” he roars.

But one pirate doesn’t cheer him on – Fjord. Caleb glances over just in time to see the flash of disappointment on Fjord’s face before he slips into an easy grin, raising his tankard in salute.

Interesting, thinks Caleb. And what’s even more interesting is the look on Avantika’s face once Vandran releases her and turns his back: furious embarrassment driving tears to her eyes and heat to her cheeks as she glares at him, howls and wolf-whistles rising up not just from Vandran’s crew but from others in the room. That’s going to be dangerous, he files away mentally.

Sighing, Caleb pushes his tankard back and gets to his feet. “Goin’ somewhere?” says Fjord curiously, glancing up at him.

“Fancy a walk,” mutters Caleb. Avantika has disappeared from the balcony while Vandran descends the stairs into the main room, a swagger in his step.

“Hey, you remember the thing I said, about not getting’ too far –”

“About not getting kidnapped? Yes.” Caleb holds up his hand, flames smoldering on his fingers. “I think I can take care of myself.”

Fjord opens his mouth to protest but Caleb disregards him, turning and walking out. Darktow is a tropical isle and the night is barely cooler than the day, humid with sea fog. The motley tents have left the main square, and instead street performers juggle fire and whirl in intricate patterns around each other. Caleb skirts through the shadows, turning down the street that eventually leads to Oppan’s building.

A light burns in the second-story window of Oppan’s workshop. Caleb glances up at it before rapping his knuckles on the door and stepping back, waiting. But this time no goblin opens the door. Caleb hems and haws for a minute, then digs through his recently-replenished spell bag and pulls out a coil of copper wire. “Hello,” he mutters into the coil, fixing Oppan in his mind. “This is Caleb, the wizard who came with Vandran. Do you have a minute?”

The response comes a moment later. “Ah, yes. One moment please.”

Only a minute later, the door opens, revealing the goblin girl again. Her eyes narrow up at Caleb over the porcelain mask. “You again.”

“Yes.” Caleb half-smiles down at her. “What’s your name?”

Her ears flatten warily. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I have seen you twice now, I think it is only polite.” Caleb shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to appear as friendly and unthreatening as possible. He’s not used to being the bigger person in the room. “My name is Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

Deliberating, the goblin stares up him. “Not the brave,” she says at last.

Not sure he heard her correctly from behind her mask, Caleb says, “Pardon?”

“Nott,” she says, emphasizing the _t_. “Nott, the Brave.”

“Well, Nott the Brave, I think your master is expecting me, so will you let me in?”

Something in her eyes flickers at the word _master_. Stepping back, she opens the door wider, and Caleb enters the musty darkness of the hall. “Up the stairs,” says Nott. “I’m sure you know the way.”

“Thank you,” says Caleb, and ascends, trailing his fingers over the waxy wood of the bannister. A gleam of amber light outlines Oppan’s door. Caleb approaches slowly, tapping lightly on the door.

“Come in,” says Oppan.

Entering the study, Caleb breathes in incense and something sharp and resin-y, embers glowing in a small brazier in one corner. The wizard stands at one of the bookcases, a tome in hand that Caleb glances at longingly, his hair twisted up into a topknot. “So.” Oppan smiles, snapping the book shut. “Vandran’s wizard returns.”

“I’m not his wizard,” says Caleb roughly. “I was just on his ship.”

Oppan’s raised eyebrows invite an explanation, which Caleb feels it’s only polite to return, considering he dropped in so late at night. “They took me from the brig of a Concord ship they raided.”

Genuine interest crosses Oppan’s face. “What put you in the brig?”

What was it he’d told Fjord? Piracy? “They caught me red-handed trying to sneak into a Cobalt Soul library,” says Caleb. “There may be… some other outstanding warrants on my name as well.”

Looking impressed, Oppan gestures for Caleb to take a seat in one of the faded brocade armchairs. “I believe I can guess what brings you back here, then,” says Oppan, sitting opposite Caleb. “Forbidden knowledge.”

Crossing one leg over the other, Caleb props his head on his hand and smiles wryly. “I want to know what that yellow crystal is,” he says. “In the box.”

“The relic of a forbidden god,” says Oppan, and pauses for dramatic effect.

This does not impress Caleb. “There are a lot of forbidden gods, not all of them very dreadful.”

“Have you heard of Uk’otoa?”

Caleb has not. “It rings a bell, perhaps.”

“Uk’otoa, servant of the Cloaked Serpent, sealed away beneath the Lucidian Sea until Judgment Day comes,” says Oppan in a theatrical whisper. “The great three-eyed monster that will devour us all –”

“Do you believe that?” Caleb cuts through.

Oppan shrugs. “Do I think there is actually a great Leviathan under the ocean, waiting to be set free? Stranger things have happened, who am I to say. But I do know there is an alarming amount of power in that single object. And if the legends are true, then… I want nothing to do with it.”

“It’s a connection to Uk’otoa, then” says Caleb. “Ja? That is the power in the crystal.”

“It would… seem so.” Oppan glances sidelong at Caleb in warning.

Caleb sighs, scratching his fingers over his scalp. “Not an object to be trifled with, then.”

“No,” says Oppan slowly, shaking his head.

“Well,” and Caleb rises to his feet. “Thank you for your forthrightness. Maybe I will be back again, someday.”

“There is money to be made in piracy, you know.” Oppan stands with him, walking him to the door. “Especially for men of our caliber.”

Caleb pauses, considering the man in front of him. “I am not in it for the money,” he admits quietly.

Like a gentleman, Oppan does him the favor of not asking what he is in it for. “Well, may the winds blow in your favor.”

“Likewise.”

As Caleb makes his way through the darkened streets back to the Bloated Cup, he keeps half his mind on the lookout for opportunistic mage-nappers, and the other half returns to that golden, eye-shaped crystal. Does he think a giant sea snake lies in wait under the ocean, ready to devour them? Doubtful. More likely some fragment of its power is trapped in that crystal, but even fragments can be dangerous. Caleb thinks of what Ikithon would do if he got his hands on the crystal, and the lengths he would go to achieve that, and shudders.

Probably a good idea to keep an eye on that crystal, then, and make sure he never gets it. That means staying on the _Tide’s Breath_ , at least until Vandran sells it, and the thought is oddly comforting. He has far fewer chances of running afoul of law enforcement on the sea, ironically enough, and the crew of _Tide’s Breath_ have treated him well. Surprisingly well, and Caleb remembers Fjord saying, “Not everything in life is a transaction,” concern in the depths of his hickory-brown eyes. Caleb’s stomach twists funnily.

Besides, if he stays with them, maybe he can earn a bit of coin and get his cat back.

\--

Before it exploded, the Concord man-of-war still did a number on the _Tide’s Breath_ , and the repairs take a couple of weeks. The crew stay at the Bloated Cup, and Fjord keeps an eye on Caleb, half-expecting him to disappear into the night and never come back. But the night before the ship is set to sail out, Fjord turns from checking the rigging on the ship’s deck to see a familiar ragged-coated figure striding up the gangplank, leather bag slung over one shoulder. “So you’re stickin’ with us after all?” Fjord says, ignoring the little jump of relief in his chest. “ ‘Bout time, we’re shippin’ out tomorrow.” 

“Well, you cannot get rid of me that easily,” snorts Caleb, panting slightly as he strides up the incline. He makes it to the deck and crosses over to Fjord, his copper hair warm as flames in the torchlight. “I figure my chances of staying out of a jail cell are better off with a crew than on my own, ja?”

“They must be pretty bad if that’s the case.” Fjord can’t help grinning and clapping Caleb on the upper arm, and Caleb’s eyes narrow slightly in surprise. “Welcome to the _Tide’s Breath_. Again.”

Not until later that evening, when Fjord is preparing for bed, does it occur to him that Caleb doesn’t know Captain Vandran’s still considering turning him in for the bounty. Fjord considers this unhappily, wondering if he should tell Caleb. It won’t matter yet for a while, anyway, he decides with a sigh. Better to wait and see what happens.

With any luck, it may not matter at all.

\--

The _Tide’s Breath_ weighs anchor as a tropical storm batters Darktow, the clouds above them heavy and swollen gray-purple as they disgorge rain on the town below. Books tucked close against his chest, Caleb wipes sodden hair out of his eyes, crewmembers _heave-ho_ -ing in rhythm as they hoist up the anchor. Bright white lightning flashes through the air, and a second later thunder rumbles, loud and ominous.

Hoisting his bag over his shoulder, Caleb turns to go belowdecks and nearly jumps out of his skin as he faces the tall, pale, black-haired woman he saw on Oppan’s street two weeks ago, talking with Avantika. She stands with an awkwardness at odds with her imposing physique, the rain blurring the kohl shadowing her eyes. “What are you doing here?” Caleb blurts.

“I, uh… I saw you guys were leaving, so I was hoping I could get a ride.” She speaks low and stilted, her accent reminding Caleb vaguely of his own, but with a foreign edge. Her odd-colored eyes don’t quite meet his.

“You will have to talk to the captain about that,” says Caleb automatically, backing away from her slightly. “He is, ah… over there.” He points at Vandran positioned on the quarterdeck, bellowing orders from underneath an oiled leather hood, his long gray beard sodden.

The tall woman turns to look over her shoulder at Vandran, revealing a massive, two-handed broadsword strapped to her back. Despite her association with Avantika and her menacing appearance, Caleb can’t help a flicker of curiosity. “Oh,” she says. “Okay. Thank you.” And she strides off towards the quarterdeck.

Despite the rain pounding down on him, Caleb watches and waits, unable to hear their conversation. But he sees the glint of money exchanging hands, and the tall woman and Vandran nod to each other, and then she descends from the quarterdeck, glancing at Caleb as she crosses to go below decks.

“Hoist sails!” yells Fjord, the wind tearing the words out of his mouth. “Watch your footing on those ropes, we don’t need any broken necks right out of port!”

A chorus of _ayes_ twist up into the storm. Drawing his coat tighter around himself, Caleb heaves open the trapdoor and descends below decks.


	4. Act I, Scene 3

The strange woman seems to have the same aversion to hammocks that Caleb does: she sets her bag down in the corner of the hold opposite him, sitting on a barrel as she slowly and methodically sharpens her sword, the wetstone scraping along the gleaming blade. “So,” says Caleb, from his own spot among the grain bags. “You are a wanderer, then?”

The scraping pauses. “Yeah.” Her gaze flicks over Caleb. Unlike the dark smears around her eyes, the blue line tattooed down her chin remains precise. “You don’t look much like a pirate.”

Chuckling dryly, Caleb says, “Ah, well, that is because I am not one. I sort of… came along with these people. For a little while.”

Unlike on the deck before, the tall woman regards Caleb steadily, and he gets the uneasy sense of something much deeper and greater behind her two-tone eyes, like fathoms of dark water underneath a sheet of ice. “What are you running from, then?”

Caleb laces his fingers together, considering. His fingerless woolen gloves are still damp from the rain. “Myself. You?”

“I don’t know.” Old, quiet pain haunts her voice.

“Mm.” The ship rocks and creaks, rain hammering down above them and swells crashing against the hull. Most of the crew are about their duties, only the few that take night watch currently asleep in their hammocks. Whispering into his fingers, Caleb lights a little fire, just for a bit of warmth. The orange light gleams on the tall woman’s long blade, and she watches it curiously. “What is your name?” Caleb asks.

She meets his eyes. “Yasha.” After a moment, she adds, “You?”

“Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

The barest ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Nice to meet you, Caleb Widogast.”

\--

“Fjord,” says Captain Vandran as Fjord passes by the captain’s quarters, “can you come in here a moment?”

“Sure, Captain.” Fjord abandons his course to the galley and steps into his quarters instead, shutting the door behind him. Captain Vandran stands in the middle of the room, frowning down at a letter in his hand. “What d’you need?”

Sighing irritably, Captain Vandran folds the letter up. “When we make port in Nicodranas tomorrow, I need you to go into town and deliver an item,” he says. “I’d go myself, but that warrant on my head is still up, so…” With a flick of his wrist and a _hrmph,_ he sends the letter onto his desk.

“Anything I need to worry about?”

“Nah.” Captain Vandran crosses to his chest and kneels with a grunt, drawing the key out by its string around his neck. “Just handle this.”

Curious, Fjord draws closer, careful not to loom over him. After a few moments of rummaging, Captain Vandran takes out the little box salvaged from the Concord man-of-war, the gold designs on its wooden lid gleaming faintly. “Take this,” Captain Vandran says, twisting around to hand it up to Fjord.

He obeys gingerly. “It’s in here?”

“Yes, but don’t open –”

Fjord opens the box.

Inside, nestled against dark blue silk, rests a single, round crystal the color of honey and the size of a walnut, faint gold lines radiating from the oval slit carved down the middle of it. “Well, that’s pretty,” remarks Fjord, gently closing the lid and handing it back to Captain Vandran. “Who’m I deliverin’ this to?”

“Feller by the name of Protto, little guy, got a scraggly kind of –” and Captain Vandran gestures disdainfully at his chin. “Meet him at the Weathered Bird at sunset. He knows who you are. He owes twenty-five hundred gold, don’t leave with a copper less.”

“Aye, Captain.” Fjord squares his shoulders. “Just me goin’?”

“Hrm…” Leaning back against the desk, Captain Vandran folds his arms and crosses one ankle over the other, regarding Fjord. “Take the mage with you.”

The mage. A brief spark of excitement touches Fjord. “Why?”

“Because that’s one hell of a powerful magic item and I don’t feel rightly comfortable sending you out on your own with it. Widogast knows his way around a spellbook.” His blue-gray eyes pass over Fjord. “And I’m curious how the two of you work together, to be honest.”

Right. Fjord clears his throat and nods. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all. Dismissed.”

“Aye, Captain.”

\--

As the sun dips low in the sky and the torches of Nicodranas come alight, Fjord heads below decks in search of Caleb. He nearly misses him, curled up and asleep on a pile of grain sacks in the corner of the hold. “Hey,” says Fjord, nudging him with his booted foot. “Caleb. Up and at ‘em.”

Caleb starts and whirls to face Ford, sparks dancing on his fingers, and Fjord realizes too late that startling awake the paranoid wizard was probably a bad decision. But Caleb slumps back with a groan, rubbing his face. “You can sleep in the hammocks, you know.” Fjord leans against a pillar, folding his arms. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“I like the floor.” Caleb sits up and shakes out his sleeves, wisps of hay clinging to his tangled hair.

“C’mon.” Fjord nudges him with his foot again. “We’re goin’ into town.”

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Caleb says, “Why?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

Caleb stiffens, drawing his chin up warily, and Fjord realizes with a start what the problem is. “We’re not – I’m not turnin’ you in,” he says. “I’m droppin’ off an item and I need your firepower as backup.”

“What item?” asks Caleb suspiciously.

“That little box we found from the destroyed ship.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow, the skin on his face tightening, and he looks ready to run. “Dropping it off with who?”

“I dunno, some smuggler, why?” When the distrust in Caleb’s expression doesn’t lessen, Fjord crouches on his heels so he’s at his level. “I’m not turnin’ you in,” he promises. “Swear.”

Caleb regards him for a long, long time. “How do I know I can trust you?” he says hoarsely.

After taking a moment to think, Fjord says, “Gave you back your spellbooks, didn’t I?”

“The captain did,” says Caleb wryly.

“Yeah, and who brought them over to the ship in the first place?” Standing, Fjord holds a hand out to Caleb. “Time’s a-wastin’. Let’s go.”

Caleb considers his offered hand, eyes sharp. Slowly, he reaches out, his fingers wrapping around Fjord’s, and satisfaction settles in Fjord’s chest as he pulls Caleb to his feet. “All right,” says Caleb. “Lead the way.”

As they cross the deck towards the gangplank, Yasha, the strange woman who came aboard at Darktow, watches them from where she sits on the rail, eating an apple. Her gaze tracks him, unblinking and stoic. Fuckin’ weird, Fjord thinks to himself. Something about her gives him the willies.

He turns to say as much to Caleb, and jumps as he finds a stranger walking next to him instead. The man is shorter than Caleb, nondescript, with brown hair and brown eyes and a vaguely pleasant, rounded face. “What?” says Caleb, his accent just as strong through a stranger’s lips. “You think I would go out with my real face?”

“Guess not,” mutters Fjord.

Captain Vandran might be a wanted person, but they haven’t put a blacklist on the _Tide’s Breath_ yet, and so they still have the luxury of docking at the Wharf Load. The pier bustles with sailors and tradesmen and zhelezo, and Fjord cuts his way through neither lingering nor hurrying; every so often he glances at Caleb to make sure he’s keeping up and keeps being startled by Caleb’s illusory face. As they pass by the Mother’s Lighthouse, the sunset light bathing the Wildmother’s face and hands in a ruby glow, Caleb gazes up in awe. “Yeah, it’s somethin’,” Fjord says. “Never been to Nicodranas before?”

“Once,” mutters Caleb. “Very briefly. And at night.”

A similar crowd as the docks fills the Weathered Bird, curly-haired barmaids darting from table to table with unchanging smiles as soldiers and sailors clamor for their mugs to be filled. Fjord weaves through the chaos, searching, and spots his quarry at a table in a dark back corner: a brown-haired, brown-skinned halfling man in dark commoner’s clothes, his eyes sharp and a tuft of hair sprouting from his pointed chin. “Evening,” says Fjord, pulling out a chair across from him. “Do I have the honor of addressing Protto?”

Protto glances warily between Fjord and Caleb; Caleb, Fjord notices, does not sit but stands behind Fjord’s shoulder. “You Vandran’s man?”

“Aye.” Catching the attention of one of the barmaids, Fjord gestures for two ales, and she nods and whirls off. “Did you have a pleasant journey down?”

Nervous energy radiating off of him, Protto shrugs. “You got the crystal?”

“Maybe.” The box nestles under Fjord’s jerkin, pressed directly over his heart. “You got the gold?”

Protto glances around and hefts three very full sacks of coins onto the table. “Right there.”

Drawing one pouch towards him, Fjord opens it just enough to see the gold gleaming inside. He pulls out one coin and bites it, just enough to press his teeth into the soft metal. “And how much is that, exactly?”

“I can count it for you,” murmurs Caleb. “But it would take a very long time.”

“Nah, I only think that’s necessary if Protto here isn’t telling the truth.” Fjord smiles at Protto, all charming menace. “Which I’m sure he is. Aren’t you?”

Protto opens his mouth to reply, but the sight of something behind Fjord makes him pause, response hanging on his lips. Fjord twists around in his seat and stares at the redheaded elf woman who saunters up to them, her skin gleaming like mahogany, and the curve of her lips echoing the jaunty tilt of her broad feathered hat. Out of his field of view, Fjord feels rather than sees Caleb go absolutely still. “Can I help you?” says Fjord.

A smile unfurls across the elf’s face. “Oh, I was just stopping by to say hello, I am a _very_ good friend of your captain.”

And Fjord _does_ recognize her now, the woman Captain Vandran hooked up with the night they came back to Darktow. “Ah,” says Fjord, his surprise cooling into distaste. “Yes.”

She slides into the seat next to Protto, who skitters away, and runs a casual finger over one of the sacks of coin. “This is a lot of money to have out in public,” she says, voice low. “And a terrible place to discuss business. Perhaps we could go somewhere more… private?”

“What do you want?” says Caleb stiffly.

The woman’s eyes, green as a cat’s, flick to Fjord’s chest where the box is, and the back of Fjord’s neck prickles uneasily. How can she know it’s there? “You,” she says, pointing to Fjord. “You have what I want.” 

“I don’t have anything,” says Fjord automatically.

Caleb draws closer, leaning down to speak Fjord’s ear. “This is when we go.”

“But –” Fjord is two seconds away from completing the deal, and he can’t go back to Captain Vandran empty-handed when he was entrusted with this task. “Protto. Twenty-five hundred gold? You swear?”

Shooting a nasty glance at the elf, Protto says, “Yeah, yeah, now let’s get out of here –”

Fjord reaches inside his jerkin and pulls out the little wooden box, and as he does Caleb’s hand closes around his wrist, his skin burning on Fjord’s as he presses Fjord’s hand into his chest. On his orc half’s instinct Fjord jumps up, pushing Caleb back, and growls, “You need to step off –”

“There are people _watching_ ,” Caleb hisses, his glower still recognizable on his false features. “We need to leave now.”

Fjord glances around surreptitiously and while most of the tavern maintains its bustle, the tables nearest to them have begun to send curious looks their way. “But the gold –”

“Who would you rather everyone sees walk out of here carrying that much money, us or him?”

Fuming silently, Fjord takes a moment before admitting, “Fine.” He turns back to the table, and Protto, the elf, and the money have all disappeared. “ _Shit._ ”

“Let’s go,” Caleb snaps.

They walk back to the _Tide’s Breath_ under a slowly-darkening sky, Fjord scowling, Caleb’s face set as stone. The wooden box under Fjord’s vest almost seems to pulse in tune with his anger. “You gonna take that fake face off anytime soon?” Fjord mutters.

“Let’s get back on the ship first,” retorts Caleb.

When they do, Fjord goes straight for the captain’s quarters. “Captain,” he says, knocking on the door. “We need to talk.”

Captain Vandran opens the door and looks from Fjord to Caleb, now appearing as himself again, and his brow knits as he reads the tension in their body language. “I take it the deal did not go well.”

“Why don’t you ask _him_ about that,” and Fjord glowers at Caleb.

Eyebrows climbing up his forehead, Caleb says, “Actually, that is an interesting point, because as I recall the complication came from one of _your_ assignations, Captain –”

Captain Vandran makes a funny noise like a startled cat. “My what?”

“Can we discuss this inside?” says Fjord pointedly.

Sighing, Captain Vandran ushers them in and closes the door. “Someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

“We got to the inn, we met Protto, he had the money, everything was going fine,” says Fjord. “Then that redheaded elf chick from Darktow showed up – you know, the one you hooked up with –”

“Oh,” says Captain Vandran, eyes rounding. “Ah – she did?”

“Yeah, and then Caleb got so spooked he started making a scene, and by that time Protto got cold feet and fled.” Fjord takes a deep breath, shame heating his cheeks. “So the deal didn’t happen. I still have the crystal.”

At Fjord’s side, Caleb stands stiff-spined, hands clasped behind his back. “Avantika knows we have the crystal and had to have had advance knowledge of the rendezvous,” he says flatly. “There was no telling what other cards she might have had up her sleeve. The safe decision – the smart decision – was to back out as fast as possible.”

“Interesting words, considering I didn’t send you with Fjord to make a decision.” Captain Vandran folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against his desk, a challenge snapping in his eyes.

But Caleb, undaunted, says, “No, I presume you sent me to keep him and-or the orb safe.”

A thought comes slowly to Fjord, his anger cooling into disappointment. “Captain… she knew we had the orb. Did _you_ tell her?”

Captain Vandran’s weathered cheeks turn the color of a tomato, and he rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his boots. “Might’ve done,” he mutters.

That means this Avantika knew before Fjord did, and it stings in a way Fjord wasn’t expecting. “The money was right there, on the table,” he says, trying to mask the hurt in his voice. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have just taken it and made the trade.”

Caleb gives him an odd look. “Fjord, do you even know what that orb is?” He turns to Captain Vandren. “Do you?”

Gesturing irritably, Captain Vandran says, “Oppan said what it was, some kind of magic crystal or relic, worth a lot –”

“I figured it was just a gemstone,” admits Fjord.

“ _That_ ,” says Caleb, pointing at Fjord’s chest, “is a remnant of the power of a demigod, and you just carry it around with you to swap it in a public inn?”

Fjord stares at him, suddenly very conscious of the bulge underneath his vest. “I… what?”

“Come on, man,” snorts Captain Vandran. “Sounds like some kind of tall tale –”

“I know power when I see it,” says Caleb bluntly. “Why do you think I found it at all?”

With a heavy exhale, Fjord rubs a hand over his mouth. Outside the paned windows of the cabin, starlight glimmers on the ocean. “What kind of power?”

“Power that we should be very, very careful about whose hands it falls into.”

“Well, in that case –” and Captain Vandran holds out a hand to Fjord, not needing words to make his meaning clear. Fjord slowly pulls out the wooden box, and maybe Caleb’s words have triggered his imagination, but he swears he can feel it humming slightly under his fingers. Strangely reluctant, he hovers the box above Captain Vandran’s callused palm, but can’t quite let it go.

A second stretches forever as Fjord hangs onto the box, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “Fjord?” says Captain Vandran, eyebrows raised. “Give me the orb.”

His voice comes as if through deep water. Fjord stares down at the box, the half-erased golden markings on its lid like a language he can’t quite remember.

“ _Fjord_.”

Fjord’s fingers tighten on the box.

A different voice cuts through the haze, sharp as a knife. “Fjord, put the box down.” And fire flashes around his fingertips, startling him, and he lets go.

Lunging, Captain Vandran catches the box before it hits the floor. As the haze clears, Fjord comes back to the room, blinking. His heart thuds hollowly with the realization of what he brushed so close to, and his fingers smart. “So,” says Caleb, breathing heavy. “I think you see why we should be very, very careful about this, ja?”

Captain Vandran stares down at the box in his hand like he thinks it might bite him. “Yeah,” he says. “I reckon you might be right.”

\--

They weigh anchor the next day, heading off into the vast blue to patrol the shipping lane between Nicodranas and Port Damali. Fjord busies himself about the ship, checking stores of food and ammunition, redoing rigging, practicing his knife work with Maken, but the nagging itch never leaves the back of his mind. He can feel the orb calling to him like a lodestone, no matter where on the ship he goes.

When they sight another brig on the horizon, Fjord welcomes the distraction and joins in the glad war whoop of the rest of the crew. “Hoist the colors!” he bellows, and Emi scrambles to do so, her tangled curls bouncing on her back. “Let ‘em know who they should be scared of!”

Captain Vandran’s flag, three skulls above a cutlass and crossed bones, all in white on a black field, ripples proudly in the wind against the blue sky. The _Tide’s Breath_ has the wind on her side and she bounds through the waves like a hound. But as they come within firing range, the strange ship raises its own black flag.

Disgruntled, Fjord puts his spyglass to his eye to take a better look at the flag. The design – a white skeleton, holding an hourglass in one hand and a spear in the other, with which it pierces a red bleeding heart – is unfamiliar to him. “Captain!” he calls. “You recognize them?”

Captain Vandran stumps up to join him on the quarterdeck, squinting against the sun. “Let me see,” and he takes the spyglass from Fjord. After a moment he sighs, grimacing. “Pull her around. We’re parlaying.”

“Whose flag is that?” demands Fjord.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Fjord growls under his breath.

As the two ships pull up alongside each other, sails furling to slow their speed, Caleb steps up next to Fjord. “I hope you are not still angry with me,” he says quietly. “And that my reasons for acting are clear.”

Exhaling slowly, Fjord watches as the strange brig draws up alongside the _Tide’s Breath,_ trying to recognize any of the crew. Some are vaguely familiar. A purple tiefling in a flamboyantly patterned coat catches his eye. “No,” he says. “I get it. Maybe would have been nice if you’d explained it beforehand, but…”

“My apologies.” Caleb stands with his hands in his coat pockets, tousled snarls of his hair falling over his forehead and around his ears and neck. “You are right, I should have. I assumed you already knew.” He smiles very slightly at Fjord. “I promise to explain more in the future.”

“Well, uh – thank you, Caleb,” says Fjord, genuinely taken aback. “I appreciate that.” Especially since Captain Vandran doesn’t want to explain anything to him anymore.

Heavy bootsteps sound on the deck behind them, and Fjord turns to face Yasha, who has a stony gaze fixed on the other ship. “I know that ship,” she says. “That’s Avantika’s ship.”

Fjord frowns incredulously at her. “ _Avantika_?”

“Yeah. I was on it, you know, before… Before here.”

Eyeing her with interest, Caleb says, “Why did you leave?”

Yasha shrugs.

Avantika’s ship is close enough now that Fjord can read the red and gold script unfurling across the bow: _Squall-Eater_. Both ships drop anchor, chains rattling through the holes, and the _Tide’s Breath_ comes to rest on the gently rocking waves. The _Squall-Eater_ halts shouting distance away, and two sailors start to prepare one of the longboats as Avantika strides onto the deck, her hat even larger and more feathered. When she catches Fjord’s eye, she grins and winks.

As the boat approaches, Var and Caspa lower a rope ladder, and Avantika reaches it and climbs up. Captain Vandran holds out a hand to help her onto the deck, and she smiles at him. “Welcome to the _Tide’s Breath_ ,” says Captain Vandran.

“Thank you,” purrs Avantika. “Shall we discuss business?”

They disappear behind the closed door of Captain Vandran’s quarters, and Ingvas sighs heavily. “I don’t like this,” he grumbles.

“Yeah,” huffs Fjord. “Me neither.”


	5. Act II, Scene 1

The island looms on the misty horizon, a dark shape through the gray drizzle. Pushing his damp hair out of his eyes, Caleb stands at the rail as the _Tide’s Breath_ sails closer, the _Squall-Eater_ not far behind. “It does not look like much,” he remarks to Fjord.

“You ain’t heard the stories I have,” Fjord mutters. “Island full of devils and ghosts, living in the ruins of a civilization that got wiped out by the gods for being too powerful…”

Caleb cocks an eyebrow at Fjord and this little bit of nautical superstition. “Do you believe that?”

Fjord’s heavy exhale and puffed-out cheeks tell Caleb all he needs to know.

“Widogast, Stone, with me,” orders Vandran, striding by as the ships moor off the lee side of the island, across from a sandy cove. “I want you coming down with me to the island.” Caleb falls in step behind him, glancing sidelong at Fjord, whose expression stays unreadable. “Oh, and where’s that Yasha woman, Avantika specifically asked for her. Bo’sun!”

Ingvas turns from his lookout post on the prow, his blond hair stringy with damp and beads of moisture clinging to his beard. “Captain?”

“You’re in charge of the ship while we’re gone. Keep an eye on the _Squall-Eater_ , I don’t want her to so much as twitch in your direction.”

Broad brow furrowing, Ingvas says, “And if she does?”

Vandran glances at Sabian, who catches his captain’s eye and smiles crookedly. “Make them regret it.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Vandran stumps across the deck to where the longboat is being readied. “Fjord,” he says. “Come here,” and Fjord steps up close to Vandran, but not so close that Caleb can’t see Vandran mutter something to Fjord and hand the little wooden box to him. Fjord nods, expression determined, and tucks the box back into his vest.

Interesting.

As Fjord rows the longboat to shore, Caleb and Yasha sitting across from him while Vandran keeps a keen eye in the stern, the drizzle thickens into a downpour. Caleb wraps his arms around his chest in attempt to keep his books dry. “I am starting to get really tired of rain,” he mutters.

Yasha looks up into the surly clouds unflinching, raindrops rolling down her cheeks. “I like it,” she says. “It feels like… home.”

Glancing up at the two of them from under his sodden bangs, Fjord says, “Where’s your home, then?” His shoulder muscles bunch and roll as he heaves on the oars.

“Oh,” says Yasha. “Ah. Xorhas.”

Fjord’s hands slip on the rain-slick oars, and a reflexive chill runs up Caleb’s spine. Eyes narrowed, Vandran half-starts from his seat. “Xorhas?” he growls. “What are you, some kind of cursed spy –”

“ _No._ ” Yasha’s eyes flash.

“You’re not getting’ back on my ship, you witch’s spawn –”

Ocean water splashes over the edge of the longboat as it crests a wave and comes down the other side. “Yes,” mutters Caleb to himself, “the military might of Xorhas is very interested in the comings and goings of a random pirate –”

“My people aren’t the ones attacking the Empire,” says Yasha, heated. “We are from very far away.”

Vandran glowers at her. “You’re still not getting’ back on my ship.”

“Fine.”

Another longboat approaches them from the _Squall-Eater,_ bearing Avantika and three of her crew. One, a burly human male, mans the oars; another, a small, bald, dark-skinned man, sits beside Avantika at the stern; the third is a purple tiefling, wearing a faded but outlandishly-colored and -patterned coat, perched at the prow. Caleb squints at this unlikely pirate, wondering if he is a spellcaster as well.

The tropical rain, ever fickle, has slowed to a tepid mist by the time the boats reach the cove. Caleb steps out of the boat into six inches of sea water, splashing up onto the beach. The pale sand curves like a crescent moon around the bay, extending about forty feet back into a dense, dark jungle, the broad green leaves and thick moss on the trees dripping with water. With a heavy, wet scraping, Fjord and Yasha haul the longboat up onto the sand, Vandran striding beside them.

Avantika’s boat comes ashore moments later, and as she strides up the beach, Avantika surveys the land around her curiously. At her side, the purple tiefling walks forward, two scimitars hanging at his side, and when he sees Yasha a grin cracks across his face. “Yasha!” he says, advancing towards her. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again!”

A small smile quirks her lips. “Hello, Mollymauk.”

“So.” Avantika joins their little group, settling her hat on her head, the large ostrich plumes hanging limply with the damp in the air. She beckons the dark-skinned man forward. “May I introduce Jamedi Cosko, an associate of mine who has some experience with this island. He will assist us with reaching our destination.”

“Which is what, precisely?” says Caleb, drawing his coat close around him.

Avantika glances at Vandran, who shrugs. “They know,” he says.

“A temple to Uk’atoa.” Avantika grins, predatory.

Leaving Avantika’s third crewmember behind to keep a watch on the boats, they begin to trek into the forest. The sand underfoot gives way to a thick mulch, the dead leaves and bark underfoot almost spongy with damp. Avantika and Jamedi lead the way, picking a path through the dense underbrush, followed by the broad and sturdy shoulders of Yasha. Shoulders which Caleb has a very good view of as he follows after her, wishing heartily he had Frumpkin with him as a bird to fly above them, or perhaps a monkey to swing through the trees. Then again, that would mean leaving himself blind and deaf in the hands of these pirates, which… well. Fjord and Vandran bring up the rear, neither speaking. Every so often, Caleb glances back at Fjord, knowing he still carries the little wooden box with the eye of Uk’atoa in it, and wondering if the call of its power grows stronger as they approach this temple.

At about midday, they come across a dilapidated shack, vines crawling over the rotting wood and through the disintegrating thatch of the roof. “What do you think?” says Avantika, using her sword to flip away a fallen branch on the threshold. “Should we check inside?”

Vandran frowns, trying to peer through the gaps in the walls. “Is there even anything in there?”

Sighing, Caleb sinks down to sit on a rock that protrudes through the forest floor, closes his eyes, and recites arcane words to himself, tracing symbols through the air. When he looks up again, a faint shimmer hangs around the edges of his vision, seeking where there might be magic. The shimmer outlines a clear and distinct circle right over Fjord’s heart where the crystal lies, and faintly dusts the sword slung across Yasha’s back. But it shows nothing inside the hut. “Well, there is nothing magical in there, at least,” Caleb says.

“It’s falling apart,” says the tiefling, Molly, striding forward. Little trinkets hanging from his horns jingle as he walks up to the wooden plank that covers the doorway. “What could possibly be in here that’s worth anything?”

He casts aside the plank, disturbing the large black snake coiled underneath that hisses and lunges at him.

Yelling, Molly draws one of his scimitars and slashes at the snake, cleaving its head off as everyone else starts, Caleb jumping to his feet. The snake’s body falls to the floor, the head landing several feet away with a soft _thump._ “Well,” says Fjord, with forced casualness. “Any more of those in there?”

Molly shoots him a wry look; his eyes are pupil-less and blood red. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

“I’ll go with you.” Yasha steps up behind Molly, drawing her own sword, and Caleb can’t help thinking the shack will barely have enough room for her to swing with both of them inside.

They both enter, and a second later, Molly calls out, “All clear! There’s a chest in here, too.”

Avantika strides forward to investigate, and Caleb takes the moment to come up alongside Fjord, adjusting the sling of his bag over his shoulder. “Can you sense it?” he says quietly. “The orb? Is it…”

“Callin’ to me? A little bit,” Fjord answers in an undertone, his dark eyebrows knitting together. A bird lets out an echoing shriek deep in the jungle. Jumedi has paced several yards away, scouting out their next steps. “Feels stronger now.”

“Well, I guess that is a sign we are on the right track,” murmurs Caleb. Vandran has squeezed inside the shack to investigate as well. “And are you… all right?”

Fjord grimaces. “You mean, do I hear the orb whisperin’ in my head for me to kill everyone? Not yet.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s more… I dunno how to explain it. But it doesn’t feel dangerous.”

Raising his eyebrows, Caleb says, “That crystal –”

“Yeah, I know what it is, you don’t need to lecture me about it.” Fjord glances irritably at Caleb, his arms folded across his chest. A ropy scar peeks out from the gap between his sleeve and his bracer. “What’s got you so jumpy?”

Maybe it’s the dark trees that close in around them, or the mist that clings to the horizon, or the knowledge of what they might unearth, but a chill creeps down Caleb’s spine. “There are some things better left untouched.”

Unexpectedly, Fjord grins, the nubs of two tusks just jutting out above his lower lip. “Aw, but where’s the fun in that?”

Fun. Caleb snorts. “I would rather stay alive.”

“Nothing,” announces Molly, stepping out of the shack. “Chest was empty.”

Yasha emerges behind him. “We found more snakes though.” She holds up a fistful of dead snakes by the neck.

Green skin going slightly greener, Fjord says, “You sure did.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” says Caleb, very quietly, “why did Vandran give the box back to you?”

Fjord glances at him sharply. “Said it was an expression of trust.” He glances at Avantika now exiting the hut and adds under his breath, “And he didn’t want it on him if Avantika decided to get cozy.”

“I see.” Arms folded across his chest, Caleb flattens his mouth in a grimace. “So if he doesn’t trust her, then why are we here?”

With a quiet huff of laughter, Fjord says, “He does trust her, that’s the problem. And, well, to be frank he’s – we’re – in it for the loot.”

“Right,” mutters Caleb. “Pirates.”

They take a quick meal of hard cheese and bread and salted meat (Yasha wants to skin and cook the snakes, to which both Avantika and Vandran vehemently object) before heading deeper into the jungle. The air around them smells heavily of decomposing plant matter, and Caleb has begun to despair of ever being dry again. At several points they pass by crumbling runes, moss overtaking the piles of gray stone. A delicate vine climbs up the remains of one door frame, sprouting ivory orchid blossoms and with long, thin black bean pods hanging from it. As they walk by, Caleb snags one of the pods, gently crushing it and bring it up to his nose. The luxurious scent of vanilla fills his nostrils, and for a second he rockets back into memory, sitting at a long polished table with Ikithon and ten other prospective students, the silverware clumsy in his teenaged hands. They served vanilla pudding for dessert, and Caleb ate it slowly, savoring the unfamiliar taste, when Ikithon turned to him with a long-toothed smile and said, “So, Bren, why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

Dropping the pod as if it burns him, Caleb crushes it underfoot as he passes deeper into the jungle.

The sun sets quickly in the tropics, night falling like a heavy blanket around them. Finding shelter in a somewhat-intact corner of the ruins, the party circles around the fire Caleb lights, dancing flames casting wild expressions on everyone’s faces. “So,” says Molly, with a devilish grin. “Anyone know any ghost stories?”

“I’m a pirate,” grumbles Vandran, and slaps at a mosquito on his neck. “I know more ghost stories than you could ever fit in that pretty little head of yours.”

Firelight gleams on Molly’s fangs as he grins. “D’you hear that? He thinks I’m pretty.”

Avantika stretches her long legs out in front of her, booted feet nearly in the fire. “I have heard tale of a ship,” she says, pausing ominously, and waves another mosquito away. “A ship with sides as white as bone and sails as red as blood. A ship that can speed across the waves or even dive beneath them. When it passes, you hear the dread cackling of its demon crew, horrifying creatures who hop on one leg and with faces that spin backwards –”

“Yeah, yeah, and the captain is a flaming skull or something, so what,” grumbles Vandran. “Demons ain’t real, and neither are ships that can dive.” Paging slowly through one of his spellbooks to try and dry the pages in the heat of the fire, Caleb snorts quietly. “The _Yellow Jack,_ now, that’s real –”

Molly rolls his eyes. “Oh, everyone’s heard this one –”

“It’s the truth, I’ve seen it, show some damn reverence,” snaps Vandran, and Fjord nods in quiet concurrence. “A ship whose crew and captain were so vile that every port in Wildemount denied them entry, dooming them to sail the seas, forever –”

“You haven’t seen it,” retorts Molly, and slaps at a mosquito.

“I have, when I was a greenhorn no older than you are now –”

“What about you?” says Yasha, cutting across Vandran. She sits opposite Caleb, just out of the range of the firelight. “You look like you have some ghost stories.”

Slowly, Caleb raises his head from his book. “Me?”

Yasha nods.

“Oh, well, ah…” Caleb looks around the circle, at everyone watching him with interest (even Jamedi, who Caleb constantly and unnervingly forgets he’s there). “Nothing as exciting as cursed ships, I am afraid.”

“C’mon,” says Fjord. “You must know somethin’ good.”

Flipping through the library of his brain, Caleb clears his throat. “Oh, ah, well, there is a story we used to tell, in the Zemni Fields. Maybe more of a local folklore. There is something called an _alp_ , it is sort of like… like a large, horrible monkey, it has horns.” Caleb uses his forefingers to mime horns, feeling slightly foolish. “It sits on your chest, at night, carrying every bad thing you have ever done. Crushing you, like an iron weight. Driving all the air out of your lungs until you wake up, gasping, and see this hideous dark face grinning down at you.” The fire crackles and pops, embers glowing fitfully. “Sometimes it is accompanied by the head of a pale horse, a _nacht-mahr_ , with burning eyes and skin stretched thin over its bones. And the _nacht-mahr_ is there to fill you with fear.”

A mosquito approaches Caleb with a buzzing whine and he snaps his fingers to turn it into a spark, everyone else in the circle watching him in silence. Only the continued popping of the fire and the humming of the cicadas in the trees break the quiet. “Damn,” says Fjord at last, awed. “You ever seen one?”

Caleb smiles a terrible smile. “Many times.”

\--

Fjord dreams.

He dreams of the ocean, of sinking into the sapphire depths as little silver fish flit past him. Deeper, and the school gives way to the shadow of a shark, gliding silently through the dark water. And deeper still, until his lungs burn and the weight of the ocean presses down on him and no light reaches his eyes.

A bass hum reverberates through the water. _LISTEN._

Gasping for air, Fjord wakes, his skin damp with sweat and morning dew, birds and insects trilling from the jungle around them. Pink tints the silver sky just above the trees to the east, heralding dawn. Despite the layer of dry branches and leaves Fjord laid down under his bedroll, some moisture has crept into the blankets as well.

Everyone else lies asleep save for Yasha, who perches on the remains of a crumbling stone wall, her sword drawn and laid across her knees. Despite this, her expression is tranquil. “Bad dreams?” she says.

Fjord puts a hand to his chest, reassuring himself the wooden box with the orb is still there. “Not bad,” he says. “Just strange.”

The others rouse shortly, chewing sullenly on cheese and hardtack. Jamedi disappears into the forest and reappears some fifteen minutes later bearing two strange, scaly green fruit about twice the size of apples. Avantika lights up with glee when she sees them. “Oh, yes,” she says, holding a hand out.

Jamedi tosses a fruit to her and she catches it handily, pulling a large knife with a clip point from her belt. Slicing the fruit in half, she reveals a creamy white interior surrounding large, dark, oval seeds, and a sweet, almost floral fragrance wafts over to Fjord. Prying out a piece of pale flesh, Avantika pops it in her mouth and closes her eyes, her fingers slick with juice. “Ah,” she says, blissful. “The best part of the jungle.”

Reminding Fjord of a cat wanting to steal a bite, Caleb inches closer, gaze on the fruit. “Now what’s this?” asks Molly, eyebrows raised.

“Cherimoya,” says Jamedi. “A favorite food in these parts.”

Avantika’s long brown fingers sink into the soft meat of the fruit, tearing off chunks and distributing them. Fjord accepts a couple portions from her, tasting it cautiously. The delicate flavor reminds him of a fruit he can’t quite place, both tart and sweet, and he savors it slowly. “Here,” says Fjord to Caleb, suddenly noticing the hungry sharpness to his cheekbones, “you oughtta try this,” and he hands Caleb a piece of cherimoya.

Caleb accepts the piece and brings it to his lips with a precision that fascinates Fjord, carefully nibbling before apparently deeming it acceptable and putting the rest in his mouth. “Good,” he says, nodding, and his gaze flicks to Fjord with the hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

A harsh shriek in the distance pierces the morning calm.

Fjord whips around in the direction of the cry, facing deeper into the jungle, his hand flying to his knife hilt. Another harsh scream rises up, and another, and a high, wailing war whoop. “What the hell is that?” mutters Captain Vandran, sword half-drawn, and wipes cherimoya juice from his beard with his sleeve. Yasha loosens her sword in its sheath, eyes narrowed.

“We’re not the only ones on this island,” says Jamedi ominously.

Stepping forward, Avantika asks, “Are those the guardians of the temple, do you think?”

“Maybe.” Shrugging, Jamedi hefts his rucksack over his shoulders, adjusting its weight on his back. “There are some people who live here, lizard-folk. Simple, suspicious creatures. More likely one tribe is fighting another.”

“Well, let’s try and avoid them, shall we?” Avantika combs out the bedraggled feathers on her hat before placing it carefully on her head. “Let us go.”

As they proceed into the jungle, the trees towering above them with trunks thick enough to fit Fjord inside, the cries rise in pitch and intensity, and then fade. “Well,” says Fjord, into the echoing silence left behind. “Sounds like somebody won.” A mosquito buzzes around him, landing on his neck, and Fjord slaps it, thankful for the toughness of his half-orc hide.

Jamedi looks a little uneasy, which does not reassure Fjord. “Let us hope we have no cause to find out.” And he leads them on.

The first thing Fjord notices is the smell.

Blood, thick and ferrous in the tropical air, curls in Fjord’s nostrils and turns his stomach. In front of him, Avantika hisses in a breath between her teeth, and Caleb and Yasha look equally grim. The trees thin, and they step forward into the village.

“Oh no,” says Caleb, very quietly.

Small sandstone buildings dot the clearing, vines and moss crawling up at their bases, the jungle encroaching on the outermost structures. Many of the doorways gape open, doors dangling from their hinges, and the dark ground squelches under Fjord’s feet. Flies and mosquitos hover so thickly over the bloody earth and scattered bodies that a black haze hangs around the village. Molly whistles low under his breath, stepping carefully past the twisted corpse of a reptilian humanoid, its blunt, iguana-like face mangled. “What happened here?”

“What always happens,” mutters Caleb, picking his way further in. “Death.”

A tight grip on his knife and his heart pounding, Fjord walks slowly through the village, following what passes for a main street. A strange snake-headed obelisk stands at the side of the path, carved out of pale stone, and with a bloody handprint smeared on its front. Fjord pauses, staring into its blank eyes, and a chill runs down his spine. 

Behind him, Captain Vandran stumps forward and grumbles, smacking at bloodsucking insects on his skin. Carrion birds screech and flap away as he passes by them. “Must have been a fight,” he says. “Those look like blade wounds.”

“Did they all kill each other, then?” Avantika uses her rapier to gingerly inspect the gaping gash in the side of a corpse, her upper lip curled with disgust. “Some sort of… inter-tribal altercation, perhaps?”

Fjord frowns, looking closer at the cadavers. The lizardfolk have wiry, muscular bodies covered in green scales, spines running down their back and long tails, and if there’s a physical difference between the men and the women, he can’t tell, though he does see child-sized bodies that he quickly turns away from. Their clothing is mostly leather and scraps of fabric, adorned with bones and beads, and their weapons are crude: clubs, shields, and broken spears. Not the sort of things that would make the deep clean slashes that felled so many of them. “I don’t think they did this to themselves,” he says slowly, his heart pounding relentlessly with apprehension.

He glances at Caleb beside him. Wide-eyed, Caleb raises a finger to his lips, and then points ahead of them to where the street leads to a temple built of the same pale ochre stone in a blocky pyramid, indistinct shapes stirring at its base past the fog and the clouds of insects. “Shit!” hisses Fjord, and immediately darts into the shelter of the nearest house. “Everyone, get off the path!”

Alarmed, Captain Vandran ducks behind a house on the opposite side of the street, Caleb flattening himself against the wall beside Fjord. The rest of the party glance at him curiously. “There are _other people_ ,” Fjord whispers furiously, jerking his head up towards the temple. Each thud of his heart reverberates through him like a pulse, making it hard to think.

Jamedi’s eyes widen, and he practically disappears as he sprints to cover. Molly hides himself as well, Yasha cautiously joining him, but Avantika stands in the middle of the street, rapier glinting at her side, her head cocked curiously as she eyes the temple. “So that’s it, then,” she murmurs, and she glances at Fjord. “Can you feel it?”

Feel what? Fjord thinks, frowning, and then he realizes. The drumbeat-like pulse in his chest isn’t his heart, not entirely. Pressed underneath his leather jerkin, the little wooden box thrums on steady intervals, calling – or perhaps answering. Fjord catches his breath, his shoulder braced against the rough-hewn stone blocks. “Yeah,” he says, half to Avantika, half to himself. “I do.”

Smiling, Avantika walks forward down the street.

“Captain, what’re you doing?” hisses Molly after her.

A faint mist rises from the ground as the mulch releases moisture in the heat of the climbing sun. Long coat fluttering around her calves, red hair falling tangled down her back, Avantika strides confidently onwards. “Oh, for gods’ sakes,” mutters Molly, and hurries after her.

Fjord wants to join them, but is that just the allure of the solid, imposing pyramid of stone? “C’mon,” he says to Caleb, stepping around him to the other side. “ ‘Round this way.”

As Fjord edges around the side of the hut, carefully avoiding a bloody corpse on the ground, Caleb sticks close to him, looking a little green. Fjord doesn’t have the heart to tease him for being squeamish, but he does say, “You’re not gonna go belly up on me, are you? I need to know I can count on you when the going gets rough.”

A glint of challenge in his eyes, Caleb lifts his chin. “I am right behind you.”

“Good.” Fjord nods to him once with renewed determination and slinks around the back of the house, past a window and door that gape like the empty holes in a skull. Avantika and Molly continue their walk down the street, and Fjord catches a glimpse of Vandran and Yasha mirroring his progress on the other side.

But between the houses and the temple, a wide green space stretches, grass growing around crumbling tree stumps, not nearly tall enough to hide. Peering around the edge of the last building before the open space, Fjord counts people – five, six, seven of them, gathered around the staircase that leads to the top of the temple. They wear purple and green and gold, and sunlight glints on the long glaives in their hands and the curved swords at their waists, and the low, unintelligible sounds of their speech drift over to Fjord. Some are seated, some standing, and none seem to have noticed Avantika and Molly yet.

The crystal in the box hums again, and Fjord clenches his hand on his knife. He wants to go _forward_. “How many you think you could get with your fireball?” he murmurs to Caleb.

Caleb raises his eyebrows. “So it is to be a fight?”

“Who do you think did all this?” And Fjord jerks his head back at the carnage behind them.

Face darkening, Caleb says, “Good point,” and pulls a leather pouch out from inside his coat. “I can probably get some of them from here.”

Satisfaction curls in Fjord’s voice. “Light ‘em up.”

The smell of sulfur and acrid refuse hits Fjord’s nostrils as Caleb hunches and grinds his palms together, an orange glow blooming between them. Straightening, Caleb shoots his arms out straight, one hand sliding over the other, and from between his hands a brilliant ball of fire rockets straight at the group by the temple, engulfing them.

“Ha!” shouts Avantika, sprinting forward, Molly hot at her heels. Fjord bursts into a run as well, pack bouncing on his back. The flames clear to reveal the two people closest to Caleb charred and down, the others shrieking and batting at the flames. When they see the pirates rushing towards them, they yell and brandish their weapons.

Fjord rushes at the gold-skinned man closest to him and slashes wide, blocked by the spear of the man. Grabbing the spear, Fjord yanks the man closes and headbutts him. Hissing in pain, the man staggers, and Fjord catches a glimpse of his green slit-pupiled eyes and viper-like fangs before he drives his long knife up under the man’s ribs.

The snake-man curses Fjord in an unknown language and Fjord grabs him by the throat with his other hand, stabbing him a second time, a third, and lets him drop. Panting with adrenaline, the box in his vest vibrating, Fjord swings around and grabs at the next snake-person by him, yanking her away from Captain Vandran. She doesn’t have a chance to turn before Fjord’s knife sinks into the base of her neck, severing her spinal cord. As she drops like a sack of potatoes, Captain Vandran nods at Fjord, clutching a bloody gash in the side of his coat. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Fjord scans the action for his next target but it’s already over, Avantika, Molly, and Yasha all standing over their kills with reddened swords. “Damn.”

Grimacing, Captain Vandran hobbles over to the steps and sits down on them, peeling back his coat and shirt to inspect the cut in his side. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, crimson staining his clothes and fingers.

Fjord starts pulling his shirt hem out so he can rip a strip off for a bandage, when Yasha says stiffly, “I got this,” and kneels by Captain Vandran. Her face tense with concentration, she reaches out with one faintly-glowing hand and presses it to Captain Vandran’s side.

“Ay!” yells Captain Vandran, flinching. Fjord jumps forward to pull Yasha off of him, but the light on her hand flares, and a second later she sits back on her heels, sighing wearily.

Fjord crouches at Captain Vandran’s side. “Captain, you all right?”

“I… yeah.” He pulls his torn shirt back again, and the gash has half-closed, still red and angry-looking and deep, but no longer bleeding. “Well. Thank you.”

Yasha nods once to him and rocks to her feet, wiping her bloody palm off unceremoniously on her pants. “Where’s Jamedi?” demands Avantika, looking around.

As if summoned, he slinks up to join them, eyes darting around nervously. “You killed them all,” he says. “Impressive.”

“Why would they do that, though?” Yasha frowns, cleaning her sword on her pants as well. “Slaughter the whole village like that. Why?”

Shrugging, Jamedi says, “From what I understand, the lizardfolk were a subservient population to the yuan-ti – the people you just killed,” he says, in response to blank looks. “Maybe they got too upstart.”

“Well,” sighs Avantika, looking up at the top of the temple. “Shall we?”

The pale yellow sandstone stretches up into a startlingly blue sky, stark and uncompromising. Morning mist burned away by a tropical sun, the air hangs hot and humid around them. Fjord’s breath sticks in his throat, the crystal humming faintly, and for a moment all other sound goes away.

_LISTEN._

Fjord sets one foot on the first step, the stone solid underneath him. Sweat collecting at his temples and the nape of his neck and on his palms, Fjord ascends. The humidity and heat sit on his chest, shortening his breath, and as he climbs the tendons in his calves tighten and burn. These steps were built to impress, not for ease of ascent, and the angle is steep. Behind Fjord, he can hear the others climbing up, but he does not look back.

At the top of the temple, the treetops are level with the flat stones, an immense green sea stretching out around them. Directly in front of Fjord sits a block of a different stone, matte and gray and emanating an air of impossible age. Faint red stains bloom across the top and onto the sides, overlapping each other. Behind the ancient stone, on the other side of the terrace, two golden statues of coiled, snarling snakes hold unlit torches. “Is this it?” says Fjord, hushed.

Avantika steps up beside him, a smile hovering on her lips. “We are on the threshold.”

Still wearing his long wool-lined coat despite the heat, Caleb walks around Fjord, around the alter, and up to one of the golden snakes. Blood-red rubies glitter in its eye sockets. “Hm,” says Caleb, and turns, and looks down. “Ah. There is a hatch, here.”

As the others climb up (Captain Vandran bringing up the rear, huffing and panting), Fjord joins Caleb to investigate the hatch. The square metal trapdoor is set flush into the stone, with a large handle on one side. “Think it’s unlocked?” Fjord says, and lifts the latch, the metal hot against his palm.

It opens.

Fjord whistles quietly, looking down into the cool dark below. He estimates a six, eight foot drop maybe. “What d’you think?” he says to Caleb, and grins with the little thrill of discovery. “Straight down into the lion’s den?”

“Snake’s den, more like,” says Caleb. “Here.” Reaching into his components pouch, he takes out a pinch of a bright yellow powder and sprinkles it above the open hatch. The little falling particles cling to each other, coalescing into four softly glowing spheres that gently tumble over each other, drifting down into the room below and casting a golden light. The beauty and delicacy of the magic surprises Fjord, although he isn’t quite sure why. Maybe it’s because five minutes ago Caleb turned two of the yuan-ti into barbeque. “Do you see anything down there?” Caleb asks.

Crouching on his hands and knees, Fjord sticks his head through the open hatch. “Looks like a big room,” he says. “I see some stairs, a fountain… lot of snake sculptures. Think they worshipped a snake god?”

Caleb snorts. “It seems so.”

The light of the little spheres isn’t terribly bright, but it’s enough to give Fjord a decent look at the large, five-sided room, with the brackish fountain in the center and moss creeping over the corners. Intricate carvings cover the walls, and Fjord catches a glimpses of faceless masses raising their hands up in worship and half-human, half-snake beings writhing in pain. “Looks empty,” says Fjord. “I’m goin’ in.”

“Is there a ladder –”

Swinging his legs around, Fjord grabs the lip of the hatch and lowers himself down. He takes a moment to assess, dangling, before dropping the last few feet. The distance is farther than he thought and he hits the ground with a grunt, legs buckling to catch himself. Spinning, Fjord does a quick survey of the room, but it’s empty. “All clear!” he calls up at the square of light above him.

Caleb’s head appears, silhouetted against the sky, and beside it Avantika’s, her hair falling around her face. “What is down there?” she calls.

Fjord casually approaches one of the carvings on the wall, a vast, weathered depiction of a giant muscular man with multiple arms, his head that of a massive hooded cobra and indistinct lines swirling around his form. “Why don’t you come down and see for yourself?” he shouts back.

Indistinct conversing happens above him, presumably the others discussing how to get down, as Fjord surveys the artwork. As he paces along, following the shape of the room, a story begins to take shape in the chiseled stone: the snake-headed deity descending from the sky, cloak sweeping across the land, and the people turning to it in worship. And then, under the god’s power, its people begin to change in its image, growing fangs and scales and their legs turning into snake’s tails, and some transforming completely. Fjord completes his circle and pauses in front of the central carving of the snake-headed man, gazing up at the polished gold set in its eyes.

Behind him sounds the thump of a body hitting the ground, and Fjord turns as Yasha stands up straight, gazing around her. The edge of the light shaft coming through the ceiling catches the side of her face, painting a stripe of illumination down one cheek and on to her arm. “What is this place?” she says quietly, awed, her sword drawn at her side.

“Some kind of temple.”

“Oh.” Her eyes travel over the carvings, and Fjord notices for the first time they’re odd-colored: one lavender and one aqua. And that, combined with her alabaster-pale skin and her height, makes Fjord wonder if maybe she’s not fully human after all.

A knotted rope lowers from the hatch, and a moment later Molly climbs down, hand under hand, with the agility of an acrobat. Alighting on the ground, he brushes dust off his multicolored coat, surveying the chamber with the same interest Yasha did. “Well, this is something.” Dipping his finger in the turgid fountain water, he tastes it and sticks his tongue out in disgust.

Captain Vandran descends next, grimacing and cursing, and he drops the last foot or so, stumbling as he falls and clutching his side. “I’m fine,” he growls as Fjord hurries over to help him, waving an irritable hand at him. “It’s good.” Wincing, he gets to one knee and stands. His face creases distrustfully as he looks around the room.

After him comes Avantika, who gazes at the chamber with awe and delight. “Do you know whose temple this is?” she says. “This is the temple of –”

“Of the great Cloaked Serpent Zehir, I know,” says Caleb, his voice strained with effort as he slowly climbs down the rope. “Creator of snakes and snakefolk, master of chaos and deception, et cetera, et cetera.” Faint scorn curls his voice.

Avantika’s eyebrows raise, and she turns towards him. “You are not a believer?”

Landing on the ground, Caleb straightens his coat, adjusting the leather straps of his book holsters. “The gods and I do not exactly see eye-to-eye,” he says dryly.

“To be fair, most of the gods do not see eye-to-eye with each other either.” The last one, Jamedi climbs down and rejoins the others. Despite the heat and humidity, he’s not sweating. “This one, for example. Hates the Lawbreaker and the Wildmother.”

“Well, I am not particularly enamored of them, either,” mutters Caleb, gazing up at the central carving of Zehir.

Something else occurs to Fjord as he looks around the room. “So, uh… Where do we go from here?”

Heads swivel as the others realize there are no other doors or staircases. “Surely there’s more to the temple than this?” says Molly, frowning. “We’re not even at the base of the structure.”

“No, there is more,” murmurs Avantika, pacing slowly alongside the carvings, running her fingers over them. Testing, probing, seeking hidden pressure points. “We are not yet at the heart.”

_LISTEN._

Fjord closes his eyes for a long few moments, listening to the faint but steady humming of the crystal under his vest. The floor under his feet vibrates ever so slightly in response. He hears the various footsteps of the others moving about the room, and the faint echoes of their breathing, and the slow gurgling of the fountain.

Crossing over to the fountain, Fjord inspects it closer. The central column of the fountain rises out of a broad and shallow basin, with another basin two-thirds of the way up. Brackish water burbles from the top finial, trickling down from one basin to the other. “You know,” remarks Yasha, coming up beside him, “for people who worshipped this god, they didn’t do a very good job of keeping his temple.”

“Makes you wonder what else they got goin’ on here.” The water in the bottom basin is clouded and stagnant, but Fjord thinks he can see shapes through the murk. Kneeling, he sticks one hand in the water and swishes it around a bit, trying to clear it, but he only stirs up more silt and rotting plant matter.

Yasha leans over him, frowning. “What’s in there?”

“I dunno, trying to find out.” He reaches in further, up to his elbow now in stagnant water as he slides his hand along the floor of the basin, trying to feel for what’s there. Halfway through a sweep his hand comes against a stone curve, and Fjord traces his fingers over it, trying to feel out the shape. The stone coils around itself, forming a mound, and culminating in a simple but unmistakable snake’s head. “Aha,” says Fjord, feeling around the head. Its mouth is open, though not wide enough for his finger to go in, and the eye sockets are empty. “Interesting.”

Caleb and Captain Vandran have both approached as well. “Found somethin’?” says Captain Vandran.

“Think so.” On a hunch, Fjord searches for another snake, and finds it on the opposite side of the basin. It’s identical, as far as Fjord can tell, but it has eyes. Interesting. Fjord sits back on his heels, withdrawing his dripping hand, and considers. “What would you put in a snake’s eyes?”

Considering this, Yasha frowns. “A knife.”

“No, I mean like – if it didn’t have eyes, what would you put there.” Yasha, Captain Vandran, and Caleb all look extremely confused, and Fjord sighs and explains. “There’s two snake statues in that fountain, and one of ‘em has empty eyes. D’you think maybe we’re supposed to put something in there –”

“– and it will unlock a passageway? Maybe.” Caleb’s eyes glaze over with concentration. “About what size are the sockets?”

Fjord holds up one of his thumbs, and an idea occurs to him. Sticking both his hands back under the water, he finds the snake again and presses both his thumbs into the eye sockets. “That do anything?”

Glancing around the room, Caleb shakes his head.

“What’re you doing over here?” says Molly, strolling over.

As Fjord explains about the snakes under the water, Molly quirks one eyebrow. “Is it a mechanism or some kind of spell?”

“Probably a bad idea to hide a mechanism under water,” says Caleb. “You, you are very fancy, would you happen to have any gems?”

Now both Molly’s eyebrows raise. “Gems?”

“Ja, about… this big, would you say?” Caleb holds a finger and thumb apart for size and glances at Fjord for corroboration, who shrugs and nods. “Just two.”

Incredulous, Molly cocks his head. “Do I look like the kind of person who just carries expensive gems around on my person for no reason?”

Fjord and Caleb look at each other at the same time. “Kinda, yeah,” says Fjord, and Caleb agrees.

“Fair enough,” Molly sighs. “But no, right now I don’t.”

Caleb frowns, steepling his fingers. “What about the yuan-ti we killed?”

Fifteen minutes later, Yasha and Fjord return to the chamber with an assortment of rough gemstones taken from the fingers and belts of the yuan-ti corpses outside. By now, everyone has gathered around to watch as Fjord crouches back down by the fountain. “Here,” says Fjord, wiping the blood off of two uncut rubies that look the right size. “Let’s try these.”

Finding the statue under the water, Fjord slips the rubies into its eyes.

_LISTEN._

The faintest _schick_ reverberates under his fingers as internal mechanisms slot into place, and the floor under his feet begins to rumble. “Everyone get back,” warns Fjord, getting to his feet, and throws out an arm to keep Captain Vandran behind him. His hand catches Caleb as well, knocking into his shoulder.

Stone grumbles and grinds as the pavement around the fountain descends into steps that spiral down around a central column, not into darkness but a rich orange glow. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruit sweeps over Fjord. Pushing into Fjord’s arm, Caleb peers over his shoulder. “Are those trees?”

Fjord cranes his neck, squinting past the edges of the stairs. Brown-gold leaves glimmer faintly. “Think so.”

Sighing, Yasha rolls her shoulders and begins descending the stairs. Molly slips in after her, the trinkets dangling off his horns chiming faintly. Though he should be looking to Captain Vandran for orders, Fjord finds himself glancing at Caleb instead. “Ready to go down?”

The corner of Caleb’s mouth curls up in a smile. “After you, my friend.”

And they descend.


	6. Act II, Scene 2

A low chord reverberates the crystal in Fjord’s vest as he paces down the stairs, winding around the stone column into what is, impossibly, an orchard. Stunted trees with a thick canopy of leaves fill the chamber on either side of a channel through which brackish fountain water flows. The orangey light comes from glowing orbs embedded in the stone walls, and the lower Fjord walks, the stronger the smell of fermentation and rot becomes until it nearly chokes him. Plump yellow-green fruits hang from the tree branches, and many more lie scattered across the mulchy floor in various states of decomposition.

_LISTEN._

Another stone block sits in the center of the room, identical to the one on top of the table, but with one exception: a broad divot has been scooped out of one side, with a groove to funnel liquid into the broader channel in the floor underneath. Blood coats the top of the ancient block, so thick in the divot and groove that it has become dark and clotted. Fjord thinks back to the brown-red water he stuck his hand in above, and his stomach turns. “Is that what they’re feeding the trees with?” whispers Captain Vandran, horrified.

“Aye,” says Jamedi, grim.

“Split up and search,” orders Avantika, unfazed. “There must be more to this room.”

More than the blood-drinking trees? Fjord thinks wryly. Holding his breath, he enters one of the groves. Pulpy fruit squelches under his boots, and he reaches out to touch the mahogany bark of one of the trees. The wood under his fingers is uncomfortably spongey.

Leaves and branches rustle and Fjord turns as Caleb approaches him, his eyes on the trees above. The orange light glints on his scruffy beard and softens the shadows under his eyes and cheeks, warming his skin. The threads of his fingerless gloves fraying, he reaches up and plucks one fruit from a branch, fingers sinking into the plump golden flesh. “Are you goin’ to _eat_ that?” asks Fjord, horrified.

Glancing up at him sharply, Caleb brings the fruit to his hooked nose and sniffs. “Why not?”

“They water them with _blood._ ” Fjord points in the direction of the second altar.

“And the planks of your ship, how much blood has soaked into them?”

“I…” Fjord opens his mouth and realizes he doesn’t have a good answer. “That’s different.”

 _Is it?_ say Caleb’s raised eyebrows.

Fjord scowls. “Fine, if you’re havin’ some I’m trying it too.”

A fierce grin flits across Caleb’s face. Pulling out a small knife from inside his coat, Caleb slices through the thick, slightly-fuzzy skin. Carnelian liquid oozes out, welling syrupy from the split, and Fjord tells himself it’s not blood and almost believes it. “What if it’s poisonous?” Fjord says. “What if it kills us?”

Caleb makes a second incision, slicing a wedge out of the fruit. Red juice smears the pad of his thumb. “It won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“There are a million things that can poison a man, why would you devote a temple to yet another?” He holds the wedge out to Fjord on the blade of his knife.

Taking a deep breath, Fjord accepts the fruit, the orange-red flesh sticky to touch. Caleb meticulously carves another piece for himself, and raises it to Fjord in a wry salute, lips curling. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Fjord brings the fruit to his lips and bites.

The flesh is sweet, almost sickeningly so, but as that fades Fjord is left with the overwhelming taste of iron, bitter and metallic. Fjord chews and swallows, wiping his sticky fingers on his trousers. Crimson staining his lips, Caleb finishes his portion and shrugs, looking at the rest of the fruit. “Not so bad.”

“If we die, I’m blamin’ you,” says Fjord, waiting for the agonizing stomach cramps to start.

Caleb snorts. “You agreed to this.”

“Yeah, ‘causes you would have made me feel like a coward if I didn’t.” Fjord nods at the forest ahead of them. “Onwards?”

Tossing the fruit to the side, Caleb says, “Onwards.”

Within a few yards, the trees clear and they come to a stone wall with a broad, blank tablet affixed to it and some kind of hole or sluice cut underneath. “Huh,” says Fjord, looking up at the tablet.

Standing beside him, Caleb squints at the blank stone. “Is something supposed to be there?”

Fjord shrugs. “Maybe they hadn’t finished carving… huh.” He trails off as the light in the room shimmers. “Did you see that?”

Frowning, Caleb says, “See what?”

“That.” Fjord swipes a hand through the air, and to his amazement the faint golden shimmer clings to his fingers. “You don’t see that?”

“See what – ohhh…” Caleb’s eyes widen. “Is it coming from the orbs?”

“Maybe the trees?” Fjord runs his fingers through the leaves on a bough to see if they shake off more light, and the leaves glow. “Maybe it’s some kind of pollen – oh god. Is it infectin’ us?”

“Good thing I am not allergic,” says Caleb, and _giggles._

Fjord stares at Caleb, whose pupils are so wide only a thin ring of blue surrounds them. “Hey,” says Fjord slowly. “Your eyes are real big.”

Looking up at Fjord, Caleb says, “So are yours.”

“Huh.” Fjord turns back to the wall and lo and behold, writing has appeared on the blank stone in the same glimmering gold that dances around his vision. “Caleb!” he says, grabbing the wizard’s shoulder. “ _Look_.”

 _The fountain feeds the garden_ , read the words. Fjord shudders. Fountain of blood, it means.

Under Fjord’s grasp, Caleb shivers. “Do you think,” he rasps, “there are other tablets like this in the room?”

The heady thrill of adrenaline sweeps over Fjord. “I bet there are,” he says, breathless. “C’mon!” And he yanks Caleb with him, hurrying towards the next wall.

“Fjord –” pants Caleb, trying to keep up with him, and the lights spinning around Fjord are dizzying and everything is so _beautiful_ , the leaves glow, the trees glow, Caleb’s hair glows, and as they turn the corner and rush along towards the next tablet, Captain Vandran shouts in their direction.

“Something wrong?” he calls.

“Writing on the walls!” Fjord yells back, and skids to a halt in front of the tablet. This one also has a hole underneath it, and reads, _The garden feeds the warden._ “The fountain feeds the garden, the garden feeds the warden,” he mutters. “The fountain feeds the garden, the garden feeds the warden –”

A hand claps down on his shoulder and Fjord yelps, jumping around to face Captain Vandran, who squints craggily at him. “Boy, you all right?” he says.

“He’s fine, we are fine,” says Caleb, staring at the wall. “Fine as wine –”

Captain Vandran’s long gray beard is full of gnarled silver threads, each one delicate and glittering in the golden glow. The longer Fjord looks at it, the greater the intricacies become, threads tangling and interweaving each other, each one leading to the next –

A sharp smack to the side of the head breaks Fjord from his reverie and he staggers, face stinging. “Whuh –”

“Snap out of it!” barks Captain Vandran. Behind him, Avantika approaches, her skin shimmering the same mahogany as the trees. “What _happened_ to you?”

Behind Fjord, Caleb yells, “There is more!” and takes off at a run towards the next tablet.

Avantika steps closer, eyes narrowed. “What is that on your face?” she says quietly, and drags a thumb over the corner of Fjord’s mouth. It comes away with a dab of red.

“Oh,” says Fjord. “Oh. Uh. We might’ve. Ah. Eaten some of the fruit.”

The color drains from Captain Vandran’s face, and his eyes go wide. “The fruit _here_? In this devil-cursed orchard?”

“It was Caleb’s idea,” says Fjord stupidly.

“Fjord!” calls Caleb, hoarse, from across the chamber. “The third one says, ‘The warden guards the false serpent!’”

Red curls swinging, Avantika looks over in his direction and back at Fjord, confused. “The third what?”

“The third – one of them tablet things.” Fjord points behind him at the words gleaming on the flat stone. “You don’t – you don’t see it?”

“See… what?”

Fjord suddenly feels very, very foolish, his mouth dry. “The words? On the wall? You don’t – you mean, you don’t…”

Looking at him like he’s gone crazy, Captain Vandran slowly puts his hands on Fjord’s shoulders. “Fjord, I’m thinkin’ maybe you shouldn’t have eaten that fruit.”

The golden glow didn’t appear until after – _right_ after – he and Caleb at the fruit. “Ohhh,” says Fjord slowly. His head feels light.

“There is a fourth!” comes Caleb’s voice to them, echoing off the stone walls. “ ‘The sacrifice feeds the fountain!’”

“What’s everyone yelling about?” says Molly, strolling up. His eyebrows rise when he sees Fjord. “What are _you_ tripping on?”

“I’m not –” Fjord clears his throat. Captain Vandran’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing keeping him from spinning away into the world and he is very grateful for them. “I’m not trippin’.”

“Believe me, I’ve done enough drugs to recognize when someone else is on them.” Molly crosses to the stone altar and sits down on a clean corner of it, adjusting one high leather boot. “What was it? Spores, off the trees? The fruit –” His scarlet eyes widen. “You ate the fruit, didn’t you.”

Fjord shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Only a little piece.”

“Him and that fool wizard,” grumbles Captain Vandran. “Sit down, boy, before your knees give out on you.”

This is a very appealing idea. Fjord lets Captain Vandran guide him down to a broken and upturned bit of slab, dropping his pack to the ground. As the word slides through the golden haze around him, Fjord tries to regulate his breathing.

Jamedi and Yasha walk up together, Yasha glancing curiously at Fjord. “Nothing,” says Jamedi, shaking his head. “Just some holes in the walls, but not big enough for a person to fit through –”

Panting, Caleb runs up, his hair a copper-gold halo of disarray around his flushed face, scarf and open shirt hanging open loosely around his sweaty throat, eyes glittering. “It is a riddle,” he says rapidly, hands held out emphatically to prove his point. “The sacrifice feeds the fountain, the fountain feeds the garden, the garden feeds the warden… the warden guards the serpent.” He looks around at all of them, chest rising and falling. “Do none of you… do none of you understand it?”

“Widogast, we have no idea what in tarnation you’re talkin’ about,” grouses Captain Vandran.

Caleb looks helplessly at Fjord. “It’s the fruit,” Fjord explains. “That’s what’s makin’ everythin’ all…” and he waves his hand in the air.

“What? Oh, yes, I figured _that_ much,” says Caleb irritably, brushing that away. “But the _words_ , the words on the walls, that is the key.”

“ ‘Sacrifice feeds the fountain’, that much is clear,” Avantika muses as she paces, her boot heels clipping faintly against the paved stones. “The priests sacrifice their victims and feed the fountain with their blood. ‘The fountain feeds the garden,’ obviously, the trees are nourished with the blood. ‘The garden feeds the warden…’ hmmm,” and she pauses, looking around the room. “What is fed on these trees?” Glancing over at Caleb, she asks, “Which wall was it?”

Caleb points at the wall behind them.

Everyone turns to look at it. Fjord swallows, saliva sticking in his dry throat, and reads the shining words over again. “Do you think there’s somethin’ behind there?”

“This chamber is smaller than the pyramid,” says Jamedi. “It stands to reason there are other rooms.”

Walking over, Avantika crouches by the hole at the bottom of the wall. “It doesn’t look like the blood flows through here.” Drawing her rapier, she pokes it through the hole, angling it around. “I am not really finding anything…”

“Oh, how I wish I had my cat,” mutters Caleb, digging in his spell pouch.

Fjord’s nose tingles just thinking about it. “Cat?”

“Ja, his name is Frumpkin, he is very special…” With a huff of triumph, Caleb pulls out a white paper-thin cocoon held carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “This ought to do it,” he murmurs, and crushes the cocoon. Murmuring to himself, he sprinkles crushed cocoon over himself, makes a final flourish, and the world twists weirdly and suddenly a ginger-colored mink stands where Caleb did, its whiskers twitching, a little white patch on its chin and neck. Fjord gapes, his brain struggling to grip reality.

“Now, _that’s_ clever,” says Molly.

The mink scurries forward, thick fur rippling as it runs up next to Avantika. She starts, sword scraping against the stone. “What is –”

“Looks like our wizard’s got more tricks up his sleeve than just fireballs,” says Captain Vandran, arms folded.

The mink chitters at Avantika, dashing back and forth in front of the hole. “Oh,” says Avantika, withdrawing her rapier and sitting back on her heels. “Go right ahead.”

Chirruping at her, the mink scurries through and disappears beyond the wall.

For a long few minutes, those left behind wait with held breath. Fjord’s heart pounds like a hammer, sure he is going to hear either a man or animal cry out in pain.

_LISTEN._

Yasha crosses over to sit beside Fjord. “So you tried some of the fruit, huh?” she says quietly.

“Yup.”

A trace of sympathy softens her marble features. “Would you like some water?”

“I would _love_ some water,” confesses Fjord, who has been eyeing the turgid stream flowing through the chamber.

Unhooking her waterskin from her belt, Yasha hands it to Fjord, who accepts it gratefully. He takes a couple of careful gulps, conscious of the amount of water still left. “Thanks,” he says, and gives it back.

Yasha smiles carefully. “You have your own waterskin on your pack.”

“Wh– I –” Fjord leans down and sure enough he does, he’d forgotten all about it. It’s almost full. “I… forgot I had that.”

Amusement lights Yasha’s eyes. “I know.”

The grating of stone against stone fills the room as the walls shift, rolling back to reveal rooms beyond. Fjord leaps to his feet and immediately has to grab Yasha’s arm for balance as his head spins. An awed grin on his face, Caleb stands in the room behind the wall he passed through, one hand on a stone lever. “Well,” he says, and catches Fjord’s eye. “That worked.”

“It sure did,” breathes Fjord.

They spend some time investigating the three new rooms, enough that the golden glow starts to wear off and Fjord feels more grounded, albeit with a pounding headache. The rooms on the north and south side of the orchard are hatcheries, filled with foot-high ivory eggs nestled in compost. “Should we destroy them all?” says Captain Vandran, regarding the eggs with revulsion. “Who knows what kind of little horrors they’re nestin’ here.”

“Or maybe it’s their babies,” says Yasha matter-of-factly.

“There’s no telling what’s in there.” Molly taps one claw-nailed finger on the nearest egg, making a dull sound. “Could be just yolks, could be a thousand fully-formed serpents just _waiting_ to be set free and feast on the flesh of first people they see –”

Captain Vandran turns the color of buttermilk. “How about we just leave them eggs alone, then?”

“I agree,” says Fjord.

The third room, the one with the lever, is not nearly as interesting. Fjord peruses the carvings on the walls, which depict a grand and elaborate city surrounding the temple. “Think these were the ruins we camped out in,” he says.

“Most likely,” mutters Caleb.

But the crystal in its box hums, insistent, when Fjord turns towards the back of the room, where a set of stairs descends into darkness. “ ‘The garden feeds the warden,’” murmurs Avantika, gazing into the depths. “ ‘The warden guards the false serpent.’”

A shiver runs down Fjord’s spine, not entirely afraid. “Is that what we’re going to find?”

Avantika’s lips curl in a canny smile. “Let us see.”

\--

As Caleb walks the stairs into the next level of the temple, certain from the chill damp in the air that he is passing underground, only the faintest and fading hint of gold clings to the edges of his vision. Though the high was enjoyable, and served its purpose, he is not sorry to see it go. Better to face what lies ahead with clear eyes and a clear mind.

As the darkness rapidly thickens, Caleb sprinkles phosphorus in the air and watches the four little lights bob up and over the heads of the party. “Thank you, wasn’t able to see a damn thing,” mutters Vandran behind him.

The stairs spiral deeper and deeper into the earth until the carved stone walls glisten with moisture. Caleb keeps a careful eye on his footing, not wanting to slip on the uneven stairs and slide directly into Fjord in front of him.

Once they have passed maybe fifty, sixty feet down, they come to a halt. “Hsst,” whispers Jamedi at the front of the procession, holding up a hand. “There is an archway ahead of us, and I do not know what is beyond. Let me look.”

Thirty-seven very long seconds pass. Caleb’s breathing echoes off the stone walls and he hastens to quiet it, fingers tingling with either the residue of the phosphorus or the psychoactive fruit. Fjord glances back at him over his shoulder, a gleam from the glancing lights catching his eye.

Footsteps rustle on damp stone as Jamedi returns, just visible past Fjord and Avantika. “There is one down there,” he whispers. “A snake-like person. He has not seen me.”

“One person?” snorts Fjord. “There’s seven of us, I think we can handle him.”

“Maybe we can capture him alive and get some information,” says Avantika. “Let’s go.”

Keeping a ready hand by his spell pouch, Caleb hurries after the others, Vandran wheezing and puffing behind him. They rush into the room, and Caleb takes a second to scan – a short staircase leading down, water on the floor, high pillars covered in strange designs, a broad well in the center, lit torches on the walls – and then the large snake-like creature that was reclined near the well rises up, hissing and brandishing a sword.

Yasha, Molly, and Fjord all rush in, blades drawn, and Caleb is more than happy to hang back on the landing and let them do the hacking and slashing. But rather than fight, the snake person dives into the well, his long green tail whipping past as he disappears under the water.

“A smart decision,” says Avantika dryly, stepping farther down the stairs into the room. Caleb takes a more thorough survey of the room, noting the three elaborate murals on the wall. A tremendous bird of purple flames, with three obsidian eyes. A gargantuan worm, churning earth, three ivory eyes set within its maw. And a vast, coiling serpent rearing from the waves, amber eyes set all along its body with three above its ugly snout.

Uk’atoa, thinks Caleb grimly, and then with a sinking feeling notices that even from a distance, the similarity between the eyes in the mural and the crystal Fjord carries is undeniable. He takes a few steps down, coming up next to Avantika –

“Captain?” says Fjord, staring down at the well. “I think we got a problem.”

Alarm prickles the back of Caleb’s neck as Vandran pushes past him, hurrying splashily towards where Fjord, Molly, and Yasha stand, apprehensively watching the large bubbles now springing up from the central well. Jamedi hovers in the stairwell, uneasy. “What’s happening?” demands Vandran.

“I –” says Fjord, and at that moment a tidal wave of water bursts forth as a massive creature erupts from the well, knocking over all four people by it.

“Scheiße!” snaps Caleb, digging in his spell pouch. He has enough sulfur left for one good fireball, maybe two, or maybe –

His fingers close around the tiny crude paw of dried clay as the hydra roars from multiple throats, heaving its bulk out of the well on thick-clawed front legs. Water drips from its yellow-green scales, and the five heads growl and snap, guttural. Yasha is the first to her feet, and she brandishes her greatsword with a raw yell, her thick hair dripping wet. She leaps forward, carving a red stripe in the beast’s side as Molly rolls to his feet, twirling both scimitars, and Fjord scrambles to help a wincing Vandran up.

Holding the clay paw out, Caleb makes a fist around it and _focuses,_ muttering arcane words under his breath. A great earthy cat’s paw, black and muddy as the silt it rose from, bursts from between the paved stones and slams down on the hydra’s back, pinning it. The hydra roars, struggling, and one of its five heads twists around to glare at Caleb.

“Nice one, Cay!” shouts Fjord, dragging Vandran out of range as the older man swears and clutches his wounded side. Both Yasha and Molly dart in and out, trying to get hits while avoiding the hydra’s jagged teeth. But beside Caleb, Avantika makes no move to join them, instead rooting in her pack for something.

Yasha yells again and her sword sweeps silver through the air, coming down on the neck of one of the heads and cleaving it completely, dark red blood gushing out as the beheaded neck writhes. “One down!” crows Molly, at the same time Caleb remembers why the hydra was so hard to kill –

The writhing neck jerks and straightens as two heads push out from within, their snouts blunt and unformed and coated in visceral ooze that stretches as they open their jaws and scream. “Wizard,” hisses Avantika, green eyes bright and sharp. “You have a hand with flames.”

Caleb glances at her, suspicious. “Ja.”

She pulls what looks like a thin cylindrical rod of clay from her bag, a long hempen string emerging from one end. “I was saving this for _emergencies_ ,” she says. “See those pillars?” And she points to the one closer to the hydra, the one supporting the ceiling above.

With a splash and a thud, Yasha hits the floor, knocked over by the hydra’s meaty tail. “What are you talking about?” demands Caleb.

“This is an explosive!” hisses Avantika, brandishing the clay cylinder. “I throw it at that pillar, you detonate it, the pillar comes down and crushes the hydra –”

“And our friends with it!” snaps Caleb. Fjord draws his long knife and rushes at the hydra, only to yell in pain as its teeth sink into his arm.

“No, no, no, see, there is another pillar on that side –” Avantika points at it as Fjord rips his arm free, blood streaming from the deep punctures. “It will be fine!”

Still on the ground, Yasha brings her sword up just in time to block another head diving in for the kill, its great mouth biting around the blade, saliva dripping onto her. Grim determination on his face, Vandran draws his sword. “You had better be sure about this,” mutters Caleb, rubbing his palms together to create flame.

A grin lights Avantika’s face. “Trust me.”

Molly snarls something in a devilish tongue, pointing at the hydra, as a blood vessel bursts in his neck. The eyes of one head cloud over black but a second lunges at Molly, tearing a chunk out of his patterned coat and gashing deep into his thigh, and Molly yells in pain.

With a grunt, Avantika hurls the explosive as far as she can towards the pillar, and Caleb blasts a bolt of fire after it. They collide in a burst of orange and white and heat and then the world fucking collapses.

Caleb yells, throwing himself down and out of the way of falling chunks of stone. Dirt rains down and boulders crash and he curls up at the foot of the stairs, shielding his head, and Avantika cries out in pain beside him. He’s going to fucking die here so far under the earth no one will ever know –

With a final thunderous roll, the rock fall slows and halts, smaller rocks clattering and echoing. Caleb’s breath sounds very, very loud in the enclosed dark, and he remains still, waiting for the ceiling to give way on him. It doesn’t. Cautiously, Caleb stirs, turning onto his side so he can reach into his spell pouch and take out a pinch of phosphorus. Caleb tosses it into the air and the four amber lights hover, illuminating the rock pile around him.

Now Caleb sees what saved him – a long, broad supporting beam of wood so old and hardened it might as well be stone, angled against the stairs and creating a little hollow of safety underneath. Caleb crawls forward and immediately comes up against piled rubble. “Avantika?” he whispers, not daring to shout in case it disturbs the stones.

A groan answers him, above him. Caleb looks back up and sees on the stairs above, still under the beam, a curled back and a shock of tangled red-orange hair. “Avantika!”

“Aagh,” she says, stirring. “That was… a bigger explosion than I thought.”

“You’re telling me,” snaps Caleb, digging out the coil of copper wire. “Fjord,” he says into it. “Are you all right?”

“Caleb!” The palpable relief in Fjord’s voice twists Caleb’s heart in a funny way. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Ja, ja, I am under this giant pile of rubble, I am all right.” Caleb glances up at the faint chinks of light coming through the stone, his lights bobbing gently around him. “Please tell me that thing is dead, at least.”

A muffled roar tells Caleb the answer before Fjord does. “Not yet, but we’re handlin’ it,” pants Fjord. “Can you get out?”

Caleb eyes the stacked rocks. “I am afraid if I start moving rocks around I am going to send the entire pile crashing down on us.”

“Right. Right. Fair point.” Fjord huffs with exertion, and from through the rocks rather than through the spell, Caleb hears the hydra shriek in pain and anger. “Hang tight, we’ll kill this fuckin’ thing and then get you out.”

“Acknowledged. Oh, Avantika is here with me too.”

“She all right?”

Above Caleb, Avantika breathes hard through her nose like a person mastering themselves. “Probably.”

“Well, hang in there, we’ll get you both.”

Caleb does not send another message, instead sliding a thumb over the smooth wire and listening to the muted sounds of combat. “Avantika,” he says again, easing himself up into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

Cloth shifts and she hisses in pain. “I think my leg is broken,” she gasps.

Serves you right, thinks Caleb, and bites his tongue. Craning his neck, he can just see her now lying flat on her back, hands on her stomach, gaze turned to the stone above her. Sighing, Caleb tilts his head back against the wall, ears pricked to every distant roar of the hydra. After a few minutes, there are no more roars. Caleb waits, but the silence continues. “Fjord,” he whispers into the copper wire, “did you win?”

“Yeah,” says Fjord, exhausted but triumphant, and Caleb exhales in relief. “That thing is deader’n a doornail.”

“Any casualties?”

“Molly’s a bit torn up, but he’ll be fine.”

“Good. I mean, not good that he’s torn up, but…” Caleb drops his head back against the stone, letting his shoulders slump.

Cheerily, Fjord says, “You and Avantika hang in there, we’ll get you out. Might take a little bit.”

“Ja.”

“What did he say?” asks Avantika.

“They killed the hydra, they are working on getting us out…” Caleb adjusts his position to be more comfortable – as comfortable as he can on damp stone. “So we are going to be in here with each other for a little while, ja?”

Avantika inhales and exhales slowly, three times. “What do you want?” she says, flat.

“I think that is a better question for you, isn’t it?” Caleb folds his arms over his knees, watching his little lights bob in front of him. “You hate Vandran. Why did you bring him here with you?”

After a moment, Avantika says, “I don’t hate him.” Her voice neither betrays sincerity or a lie.

“I was there, that night at the Bloated Cup, I saw the look on your face,” says Caleb. “You were furious. He made a trophy out of you.”

“Other men have made much worse things out of me.”

Ah. Caleb does not think too hard about what she means, but he can take a good guess.

“I bet that is something you can say too, huh, wizard? It is generally use or be used for mages out there.”

The horrible slide of residuum under his skin. The pressure of Ikithon’s hand at the nape of his neck. The smell of smoke as flames rise into the night sky. “Ja,” says Caleb, rubbing absently at his forearms. “I have some experience.”

“You wanted to know what I want?” Avantika shifts and catches her breath, hissing between her teeth. “Power. Freedom. Never to bend the knee to another man or woman again.”

“Ahh,” says Caleb, pieces clicking together. “So that is what you are after. The power of this Uk’atoa.”

Avantika sighs, long and slow. “Yes.”

“So why haven’t you slit all our throats and taken the orb?” Stone shifts and scrapes outside, and Caleb glances towards it, hoping to see a chink of light appear in the rubble.

Wryly enough that Caleb isn’t _too_ worried about it, Avantika says, “I have not ruled that out yet. But no,” and she sighs. “I was told you have a part to play, you and the half-orc.”

Skin prickling, Caleb twists around to peer up at her. “Told? By whom?”

Avantika takes a deep breath. “A dream came to me –”

With a loud clattering, rocks tumble away, and orange torchlight mingles with the amber glow of Caleb’s lights as Fjord sticks his head in through the wide gap he just opened. “Caleb!” he says. Blood from a cut on his forehead streaks the side of his face.

“Well, it is about time,” grumbles Caleb, though he can’t help the grin cracking his face. “Good to see you are in one piece.”

“Mostly.” Fjord grunts and shifts another hunk of rock, widening the gap, and winks at Caleb. “Pretty sure I got a couple of chunks torn out of me.”

Inching forward, Caleb starts heaving his shoulder against the same rock from the other side. “Well, I am sure Yasha can handle that.”

“We’ll see, she’s pretty tapped.” With a final shove, Fjord pushes the rock back enough that Caleb can just fit through the gap. Blood coats his right arm as well. “Avantika! You all right in there?”

“No,” she calls back. “My leg is hurt.”

Caleb crawls through the gap, the water on the floor soaking his gloves and knees of his pants. A large pale hand is held out to him and he takes it, getting to his feet in front of Yasha. Blood soaks her front from head to knee, her face clumsily wiped clear. Behind her, the massive carcass of the hydra lies half-crushed under rubble, blood pooling around it, a gaping hole in its chest. The well it crawled out of is almost entirely filled in, half of the carven collapsed. “Wow,” says Caleb. “You sure killed it.”

“I carved its heart out of its chest,” says Yasha, satisfied. A large leather bag hangs from her belt, dripping blood.

“Hey, Yasha, can I get some help over here?” calls Fjord, strained.

As Yasha strides over to assist him, Caleb crosses over to where Vandran kneels by a seated Molly, helping him wrap a bandage around and around his thigh. The door out of the room is only partially blocked, thankfully, and Caleb sighs as he joins Vandran and Molly. “Can’t tell if you nearly saved us or killed us,” grumbles Vandran at Caleb.

“Neither can I,” says Caleb wearily, sitting on the stone ledge next to Molly. Blood seeps through the bandage on his leg in crimson blooms.

Worry creases Molly’s brow. “Is Avantika all right?”

Caleb shrugs. “She says she broke her leg, but other than that she seems fine.”

“Oh, well, you know, other than that…” Molly winces as he ties the knot on the bandage tight. “Moonweaver help us all.”

At the name of a non-state-sanctioned god, Caleb cocks an eyebrow. “You are not from the Empire then?”

Standing, Molly tests his weigh on his injured leg, tail swinging to keep his balance as he limps a step. “Now, why would you think that?” says Molly through a grimace. Vandran sits down, lands in water, and immediately stands up again with a grumble.

“You don’t look much like the typical Empire citizen,” says Caleb dryly. “Then again, you don’t look much like a pirate either.”

Molly grins, all brilliant teeth. “Do you always judge someone by how they look?”

“No, I only save it for special occasions.”

More rocks clatter and splash to the ground as Fjord and Yasha help Avantika out of the rubble pile and to her feet. Avantika leans on them both, arms around their shoulders, and holds all her weight off her left leg. “I don’t know if it’s actually broken,” she admits, face twisted in pain. “But to stand on it hurts. In my _bones._ ”

They send Yasha back up to the orchard to harvest branches to make a splint, and she returns with two straight boughs shaved of leaves, and prodding a grimacing Jamedi in front of her. “So there you are,” says Avantika coolly as Yasha pushes him into the room. “You have a funny habit of disappearing whenever things start getting dangerous.”

“You did fine without me,” snaps Jamedi. “I am not a fighter, or a mage, or anywhere as powerful as all of you! What else am I supposed to do?”

“Not fuckin’ run, for one thing.” Fjord glares at him from where he’s been moving rocks out of the well, trying to see if he can clear it. “Find some way to make yourself useful.”

“None of you would have gotten here if I didn’t bring you!” Jamedi hisses.

Letting them bicker, Caleb crosses to sit next where Avantika rests on a large chunk of rock, her leg propped up in front of her. “So,” he says quietly. “You were saying something about dreams.”

Avantika glances at him sharply, massaging her upper shin. “Yes,” she says. “I was.”

When she does not elaborate, Caleb raises his eyebrows. Avantika sighs, gazing out over the room as Vandran stumps over to shout at Jamedi, who shouts back, shaven skull gleaming dim umber in the light. “A few months ago, I started having dreams.” She speaks softly, almost sing-song. “A great eye, underneath the ocean, promising the way to unimaginable power. It lead me to Vandran, and that crystal the half-orc carries. It lead me to this island. It lead me to this temple.”

The hairs rise on the back of Caleb’s neck as he realizes Uk’atoa is maybe much more present than he so blithely assumed. “And then what?”

Shoulders slumping, Avantika gestures forlornly at her own broken leg and the rubble still filling the well in front of them. “I think this is where the journey ends for now.”

“Did you get what you came for?”

“No,” says Avantika. “Not yet. But I will come back again. And besides…” She glances around, then leans in towards Caleb with a feline smile. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Caleb likes other people’s secrets. “Only if I don’t have to tell you one back.”

Lips curling sharply, Avantika holds up her hand between them, and an uneasy shimmer of light warps between her fingers, colors that don’t exist on this plane. She snaps, and it vanishes in a soft flash, sending a shiver through Caleb’s gut. “I already have so much more than I could have dreamed of.”

\--

They decide to rest and camp in the orchard, underneath the bloodfruit trees, and as Fjord sleeps, he dreams.

He dreams of the well as it was, clear and unobstructed, and he dreams of sliding soundlessly into that dark water and going down, down, down, until all light fades and blackness surrounds him, and still he goes deeper. The blackness changes, a faint, faint glimmer of yellow light from below relieving it. The glow brightens and brightens and Fjord looks down and sees a massive singular eye, bright yellow, slit-pupiled, staring back up at him.

_LISTEN._

Gasping, Fjord starts awake, so soaked with sweat and humidity that his hair drips. Instinctively he looks around at his sleeping companions and he meets the gaze of Avantika, also awake and sitting up, her eyes reflective like a cat’s. “You feel it too?” she whispers.

The crystal in its box hums in Fjord’s vest, insistent. “Is that – is that what’s in here?” he says hoarsely. “Do you dream too?”

A wide smile unfurls across Avantika’s face. “Come,” she says, and lurches to her feet, grabbing her makeshift crutch fashioned out of a tree branch. Careful not to disturb Captain Vandran and Caleb sleeping near him, Fjord follows.

Together, they descend the spiraling staircase back into the depths, Fjord carrying a lit torch. When they reach the warden’s chamber, Fjord immediately looks towards the painting of the giant writhing serpent that almost seems to move in the flickering light of the fire. “It’s funny,” says Fjord slowly, setting the torch in a bracket by the mural. “I didn’t notice before, but those eyes on the snake…”

“They look familiar, no?” Avantika draws up close to him, the torch light dancing on the smooth curves of her cheeks and lips and glittering in her eyes. A faint scent of incense and herbal oil clings to her, mingled with the rotting fruit of the orchard. “Let me see it. The crystal you carry. Show it to me.”

“I…” Fjord’s heart pounds again like he’s back in battle; is it Avantika’s proximity or the crystal resonating under his vest? The bandaged punctures in his arm throb painfully. “I’m not sure I should.”

Avantika’s lip curls slightly, the space between her and Fjord shrinking. “Did your captain tell you that?” When Fjord swallows and does not answer, she continues, “Why should you be beholden to his commands? He is such a smaller man than you are…”

“Well, hey now,” say Fjord, frowning. “Cap’n’s been like a father to me, ever since I joined the crew –”

“But there comes a time when children must surpass their parents, does there not?” Avantika leans into him, one arm braced against the crutch, the other hand tracing up Fjord’s wrist, up his arm, up his shoulder. “That time is _now_ , Fjord.”

Fjord’s breath catches in his throat, and a voice at the back of his head with an inexplicably Zemnian accent warns this is a _very_ bad idea, he shouldn’t trust her – “Why do I feel like you’re gonna eat me alive?” he says in a low voice.

Her smile freezes slightly as her eyes flick over his face, trying to decipher his tone. “Would you like me to?” she says coyly.

Out of the corner of Fjord’s eye, the serpent looms, three golden crystals set in its blunt ugly face, jaw stretched wide and full of needle-sharp fangs. “Haven’t quite made up my mind yet,” he says slowly, and takes a step back.

He catches a quick flash of disappointment on Avantika’s face before she draws herself up, smiling slightly. “The orb, Fjord,” she says. “Just let me see it.” 

Fjord reaches into his vest but does not draw the box out. “And then what?”

“What do your dreams say?”

_LISTEN._

Closing his fingers around the wooden box, Fjord takes it out and opens it. In the dancing torchlight, the golden crystal seems to flicker, looking right back at him. Looking through him, at the well.

Fjord turns around. The dark circle of water yawns in the torchlight, rubble spilling into it. “I think I’m supposed to go down there,” he says. “But it’s all filled with rocks.”

“And?” says Avantika.

Crossing to the well, his footsteps splashing in the few inches of water on the floor, Fjord kneels at its lip. Dipping his other hand in the water, Fjord tastes. The water is salt, briny and bitter.

Now that he is up close, Fjord realizes the well is only partially blocked, mostly by the large remnant of a pillar or support beam. The water below is inky black, reflected light on its surface the same oily yellow as the crystal. It is deep, and it is dark, and it is unending.

Fjord exhales a long, slow breath, his heartbeat pounding so loud Avantika’s approaching footsteps seem distant. The crystal shivers and pulses.

_LISTEN._

He could slip into that dark water. He could lose himself to it. He could sink into this inky depths, going down and down and down until the water filled his lungs and the bones of the drowned claimed him as their own and above all, the yellow eye, watching, _watching_ –

“Fjord!” barks Caleb. 

Fjord starts, realizing he’s leaning down towards the well, and fumbles and drops the box and crystal into the water.

“Ha!” Avantika shouts, lunging forward, and Fjord throws himself flat on his stomach to seize the crystal as it sinks, Avantika’s shoulder and arm colliding with his as she grabs for it as well. They scrabble for the crystal but Fjord has longer arms and he just closes his fingers around the little yellow orb, a tingle dissipating over his skin. Animal rage crosses Avantika’s face in a brief, unmasked moment, and she snarls in frustration.

Panting, Fjord withdraws his hand, arm dripping up to the elbow, and sits back on his heels. Caleb hurries down the stairs and towards them, eyes snapping, and Captain Vandran follows close behind. The stern look he fixes on Fjord sends guilt curling in his stomach. “Now, what’s happenin’ here?”

“I woke up, and you and Avantika were gone,” says Caleb. He shrugs, unapologetic. “I thought better safe than sorry.”

Fjord glances back at the dark water that he was so close to falling into, and a thrill of fear runs down his spine. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You came in the nick of time.”

Behind him, Avantika makes a sound of mingled pain and disgust, reaching for her crutch where she flung it aside. “You could have had _power_ ,” she mutters, low enough only Fjord can here. “And if you are too chicken to reach for it, at least give _me_ the chance!”

The crystal in his hand pulses in time with Fjord’s heartbeat, as loud as the breath in his ears, whispers at the edges of his consciousness. As slowly as if in a dream, Fjord looks back at the water.

Captain Vandran approaches, his hand held out. “Son,” he says, “give me the crystal.”

Almost unconsciously, Fjord’s fist clenches around the orb. “Why?”

“Fjord,” says Caleb, holding a hand out like he’s trying to placate a wild animal. “Listen to me. You are not thinking clearly. Give him the crystal.”

Fjord’s other hand finds the hilt of his knife, and he backs away, closer to Avantika. “Oh yeah?” says Fjord. “You’re real sure of that, aren’t you? Think you know so well what’s going on in my head?”

“I do,” says Captain Vandran. “You ain’t acting like yourself –”

“Why?” demands Fjord. The hard crystal presses into his palm. “Because I’m not takin’ orders from you?”

“Fjord –”

“Well, maybe I don’t _want_ to anymore! Maybe I want to be my own man –”

Captain Vandran frowns at him. “Who says you ain’t?”

“I…” Taken back, Fjord glances back at Avantika. She stands off to the side, leaning on her crutch, and a second too late drags her covetous gaze from his hand with the crystal, to his face. Fjord looks back at the well, and back to Captain Vandran, and the well again, and his hand on his knife falters.

Carefully and deliberately, Caleb steps forward, each splashing footfall echoing in the stony room. “Listen to me,” he says, hoarse and quiet. “No one is saying you cannot be your own man. But this thing is dangerous, you know it is.” Each step brings him closer to Fjord, who stands frozen, his breath trembling. “So for now, until we know better, let it go, ja?” Caleb is close enough now he can wrap his hand over Fjord’s, the crystal enveloped by their folded hands. His skin is warm to the touch, too warm. “And then,” says Caleb, even lower, his eyes boring into Fjord’s, “maybe once you understand it, you can control it.”

Fjord does not pull his hand away. “And you’d be okay with that?” he says, just as low.

A slow smile creeps over Caleb’s face, part bitter, part a challenge. “We will see.”

_LISTEN._

Closing his eyes, Fjord takes a deep breath and releases the crystal into Caleb’s hand. “I’mma hold you to that promise,” he says.

Caleb’s smile twists. “I would expect nothing less.”

“And what about _you_?” Captain Vandran demands, pointing at Avantika. “Lure him down here, did you?”

Avantika’s lip curls scornfully. “I lured nobody –”

“Using your woman’s wiles to get his guard down –”

As Avantika draws herself up furiously, the air in the room ripples weird, and eldritch light gathers around her raised hand. “Whoa whoa whoa, hey!” shouts Fjord, jumping in between her and Vandran. “No one wiled anyone, okay?” He locks eyes with Captain Vandran, asking him to stand down. “Let’s just take a minute.”

Captain Vandran sighs begrudgingly, shoulders hunching. “You n’ I are havin’ a talk when we get back to the _Tide’s Breath_ ,” he mutters.

Ire prickles along the back of Fjord’s spine; he’s not a child to be reprimanded or a servant to be scolded. But he keeps his expression blank and nods tightly. “Yes, Captain.”

“Well then.” Yawning, Caleb hands the crystal to Captain Vandran, who blanches and immediately pulls a kerchief from his pocket to wrap the crystal in before tucking it securely inside the inner pocket of his vest. “How about no more surprises for the rest of the night, ja? Some of us need our sleep.”

Fjord glances at Avantika as they head back up the stairs. She does not look at him. As Fjord lays on his bedroll and tries to regain the sleep that his dream interrupted, he remembers Caleb, and the muttered intensity of his promise, and the fever-hot warmth of his hand on his. Only then does Fjord recall what Caleb said before they descended into the orchard. _After you, my friend._

_Friend._

Fjord looks over at Caleb, who lies asleep flat on his back, hands folded over his chest, brow pinched even in rest, and wonders when the last time he called someone friend was.


	7. Act III, Scene 1

The clouds have rolled back in by the time they leave the temple the next morning, sullen and gray to match the mood of the party. They avoid the village, the smell of decomposition and rot overpowering, instead circling around the temple to return to the cove. Jamedi leads the way back, followed by a scowling, taciturn Avantika, with Yasha and a whistling Molly behind. Caleb stays at Fjord’s side, watching him for any of the foul mood that affects the others, but instead Fjord seems contemplative, his brow occasionally furrowing as they trudge through the jungle. Vandran brings up the rear, scowling and itching at the many bug bites that have arisen on his skin. 

A couple of hours into the afternoon, Fjord turns to Caleb and says, “Hey, mind if I ask you a question?”

Intrigued, Caleb cocks an eyebrow. “Go right ahead.”

Fjord takes a moment, exhaling slowly, before speaking. “When you said I could have the crystal back once I understood its power,” he says, quietly enough that the others can’t hear, “did you mean that? Or was that just somethin’ to convince me to give it back to you?”

While Caleb was expecting the question, it’s Fjord’s casual assumption that Caleb would trick him that blindsides him. “No,” Caleb mutters, gaze focused on the trodden path in front of him so he doesn’t trip over a fallen tree branch. “I meant it.”

“But you think it’s dangerous.” Fjord frowns at him. “Aren’t you worried it’s gonna corrupt me or something?”

Caleb thinks very carefully about his next words, conscious of Molly and Yasha several feet in front of them and Vandran stomping behind. “I think it is very powerful,” he says. “Power is dangerous in the wrong hands. But in the right ones…”

Surprise widens Fjord’s eyes and softens his jaw. “And you don’t think mine are wrong?”

“I don’t know,” says Caleb frankly. “Maybe time will tell. But you have honor, and you take responsibility for others, and there is… there is an openness to you, and honesty, that I frankly did not expect among the members of your profession.” Wincing slightly, Caleb watches Fjord for his reaction.

“Well, I am… honored to hear that.” Genuine gratification warms Fjord’s voice. “And grateful to have your trust.”

“Oh, I don’t trust you, not yet,” Caleb clarifies, brushing aside a drooping bough to keep it from hitting his face. “I don’t trust any of these people yet.”

Fjord strides steadily beside him, the faintest trace of disappointment pulling his dark brows together. “That’s too bad.”

“Is it?”

Stepping over a fallen log, Fjord shrugs carefully. “Trust is important in a crew.”

“Again, with the crew –”

“Well, yeah.” Fjord glances at Caleb, condensation beading his forehead and neck. “You’re stickin’ with us, aren’t you? At least for now. That makes you part of the crew.”

Caleb rolls this around in his mind, absently swatting away a mosquito. Crew. It both fills him with anxiety and a strange sense of comfort. “I suppose.”

“And I get that we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances, but I hope that you will learn to trust me, in time.”

Caleb’s stomach curls as he tries to decipher the hidden meaning, to work out what implied bargain Fjord’s words contain. But he sees nothing but honesty in Fjord’s eyes. “I hope so too,” says Caleb hoarsely.

Fjord smiles and claps Caleb on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”

\--

“Ahoy, Captain!” shouts Ingvas from the deck of the _Tide’s Breath,_ waving as the longboat rows closer. “Glad to have you back!”

Captain Vandran waves one hand up at Ingvas, scratching irritably under his open shirt collar. On the oars, Fjord glances over his shoulder at the approaching hull, shoulders heaving and injured arm burning as he rows. Across from him, Caleb squints up at the ship as well, wind teasing his hair, coat wrapped tightly around himself. Off of starboard, Fjord can just make out Avantika’s longboat making its way through the swells towards the _Squall-Eater,_ bearing not only Avantika and the crew she came ashore with, but Yasha as well. Fjord’s not sure if he’s sorry to see the mysterious pale woman go or not; she still kind of gives him the heebie-jeebies, but he recognizes a strong fighter when he sees one.

Hooks on ropes descend as Fjord maneuvers the longboat up against the _Tide’s Breath,_ and he and Captain Vandran get it secured. Wood creaks as the boat is winched up, the ocean dropping away underneath them as they get hoisted up to the deck. Ingvas holds onto the prow of the longboat to keep it from rocking as Fjord swings himself over the side, boots landing solidly on the wooden deck. “How did it go?” Ingvas asks. Other crew gather as well; Fjord spots Sabian edging up close, sharp gaze flitting from Fjord to Captain Vandran.

“Well…” Fjord hovers to see if Captain Vandran needs assistance climbing out, but he manages on his own just fine, although he clutches his still-healing side with a scowl. Caleb disembarks as well, adjusting his coat sleeves. “Not a total loss,” and swinging his pack off, Fjord crouches and pulls out the gold jewelry they took off the slaughtered yuan-ti on their way back, scattering it on the deck. “This ought to be worth a pretty penny.”

Ingvas whistles, bending down to scoop up an arm band, rough-cut emeralds set into the heavy gold. “I’ll say.” He wipes a bit of dried blood off with his thumb. “Is this the haul?”

“Aye.” Scowling, Captain Vandran stumps past, roughly tapping Ingvas on the arm. “With me, bo’sun, I need some of your casting capabilities.”

“Should I…?” Caleb raises his eyebrows, taking a hesitant step forward.

“Not your kind of casting, Widogast.”

Captain Vandran and Ingvas retreat to the captain’s quarters, crew glancing curiously after them. “Cap’n get injured?” says Nahra, a red scarf tying back her long, coarse black hair.

“Took a hit to the side, he’ll be fine.” Fjord grimaces, flexing his bandaged arm. “We all got a little banged up.”

Divastiss, ship carpenter and surgeon, comes forward, blue tattoos curling over his face and hands. “Let me see that,” he says, prodding at Fjord’s arm. With his halfling height he’s only about a head taller than Fjord kneeling on the deck. “Come on.”

They head below decks to Divastiss’ corner of the galley, Fjord sitting on a low stool that slides back and forth slightly as the _Tide’s Breath_ rocks on the waves. When Divastiss removes the bandages and sees the deep bite marks, he whistles. “What did this?”

Fjord stifles a wince as Divastiss investigates the wounds. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t, wouldn’t I?”

“You ever heard of a hydra before, ‘Vasti?”

Divastiss narrows his eyes. “You’re lyin’.”

“I ain’t.” Fjord launches into retelling their adventure from start to finish, emphasizing the fight with the hydra but leaving out any mention of the Uk’atoa crystal, or the midnight confrontation with Avantika. By the time he finishes, Divastiss has fully abandoned examining the wounds and stands with his arms folded and mouth slightly agape, gaze fixed on Fjord. “So that’s that.”

“Damn,” says Divastiss, with another low whistle. “Sounds like you’re lucky to make it out in one piece.”

“Yeah,” Fjord agrees heartily. “How was everythin’ back here?”

Uncorking a half-full bottle of rum with his teeth, Divastiss sighs. “Quiet, for the most part. Well. We caught Sabian trying to get into your quarters.”

Taken aback, Fjord frowns. “What? Why?”

Divastiss holds the bottle out to Fjord, who takes a swig. It burns going down, and Fjord grimaces. “Not sure. Caspa was on watch, she saw him trying to jimmy the lock.” Taking the rum bottle back from Fjord, Divastiss considers it before drinking as well. “He had some story about personal affects of his being left locked in your quarters on accident, but, well…” Divastiss pours the rum over the bitemarks in Fjord’s arm and it _stings_ like hell. Fjord growls and clenches his teeth, hands fisting. “None of us believe _that._ ”

“What the hell does he want in my quarters?” Fjord grits out.

Shrugging, Divastiss corks the rum bottle and rummages in his kit for a needle and sutures. “Couldn’t rightly say. You know him better than I do, you’ve been sailing with him longer.”

“Known each other longer than that, we were at the same orphanage.” Fjord prepares himself for the bite of the needle piercing his skin; when it comes, he hisses and grabs the seat of the stool, stomach clenching. “Always thought it was some joke of Fate we ended up on the same ship.”

An extra length of sutures held between his pursed lips, Divastiss raises an eyebrow as he slowly threads a wound shut. “I figured you two had beef, just didn’t think it my place to ask,” he says around the sutures.

“We never really…” Fjord considers what to say, wanting to keep talking to keep his mind off the stinging pain. “We got close because nobody else liked us. We were both the weird outcasts, so the only way to survive was to stick together. I think sometimes he still gets mad I was able to get out and make my own way first.”

Divastiss’ eyebrow cocks higher. “Mad, or jealous?”

Fjord blows out air uneasily. “You’re tellin’ me.”

With a snap, Divastiss ties off the first length, tugging at Fjord’s skin, and Fjord grunts. “He thinks he should have been made quartermaster instead of you, you know,” says Divastiss conversationally.

“Wait – what?” demands Fjord, twisting to look at the halfling, who clucks at him not to move. Baffled and outraged, Fjord faces front again. “How come I didn’t know?”

Divastiss shrugs.

“I’ve been quartermaster over _six months_ and this is only just comin’ up now?”

“Figured Cap’n was running you busy enough as it was, didn’t want to add more to the pile.” Divastiss starts sewing the second wound shut, Fjord wincing as the needle pierces his skin. “Changebringer knows you couldn’t have done anything about it.”

“Yeah, I would have liked to know, though, so at least I could keep an eye out.” Fjord scowls, wondering just how much else Sabian had been up to behind his back. “This the first time he tried to get into my things?”

“That we know of, yeah.”

Fjord reaches for the bottle of rum, uncorking it and bringing it to his lips. “Fuckin’ fantastic.”

\--

That night, Fjord sleeps and does not dream.

\--

They swing back to Nicodranus to sell off the yuan-ti jewelry, Fjord returning triumphant to the ship with hundreds of gold pieces. “Don’t spend it all at once,” jests Fjord, handing Caleb his share.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Caleb tucks the gold securely in his money pouch, and although he tries to keep a triumphant smile off his face, he can’t help his lips curling up. “Oh, I have plans,” he says.

Wearing an illusory face, Caleb slips into the crowd along the Wharf Load, following the flow of traffic into the city. Keeping a weather eye out for any promising shops, he lets intuition guide him through various streets until he spots an apothecary, a mortar and pestle painted on the sign swinging above the wooden door. Perfect. Caleb steps in.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter, her cloud of brown-gray hair bound up on her head, smiles cheerily at Caleb as he enters. “Hello, dearie,” she says, knitting needles moving in her hands. “What can I help you with?”

“Yes,” says Caleb, counting out twenty gold pieces on the counter. “I need charcoal, and your finest incense, as much as you have, and herbs. And a brass brazier if you have one.”

She has everything but the brazier, but knows a nearby pawn shop that does. Half an hour later, Caleb walks back to the _Tide’s Breath_ with his coin purse significantly lighter but a small brass brazier in his arms, slightly tarnished with starburst-shaped holes punched in the sides, linen pouches of charcoal, incense, and dried herbs carefully nestled inside.

“What’cha got there, wizard?” calls one of the crew as Caleb trots back up the gangplank onto the _Tide’s Breath._ Beside her, the master gunner, Sabian, watches Caleb with interest. “Doin’ some magic?”

Caleb ignores this, heading below decks and finding a secluded corner of the hold where he can sit himself down and start arranging his supplies. First he sets the brazier up, keeping the area around it carefully clear. Inside the brass box, he lays out the charcoal in an even layer, and with a snap of his fingers and a spark starts it smoldering. Then Caleb carefully picks out sticks of incense, their sweet, herbal scent filling his nostrils, and lays them down on top of the charcoal in a precise pattern. As the incense starts to send lazy white curls of smoke up into the air, Caleb sprinkles the herbs over. They catch and burn almost immediately, turning to orange flakes.

Closing his eyes, Caleb inhales deeply over the brazier, the smoke burning in nose and throat, and exhales slowly out his nose. He settles himself cross-legged and begins to slowly chant the arcane words under his breath, creating a doorway to another plane.

Seventeen minutes in, Caleb hears heavy footsteps approaching and opens his eyes to Ingvas cautiously approaching. “Hi,” says Ingvas, raising an apologetic hand. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“No, that is quite all right.” This spell takes a long time, long enough that Caleb does not need to actively concentrate on it throughout. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Ingvas flushes, rubbing the back of his neck, surprisingly self-conscious for so large a man. “Actually, uh, I was wondering if I could watch you work,” he says. “I won’t bother you or nothing, I’m just real curious since I’ve never had any – well, I ain’t trained like you are.”

“I, uh, sure,” says Caleb, scooting back a little further against the wall so Ingvas has room to sit down beside him. “You are more of an instinctual caster, no? Nature magic?”

“Aye.” Ingvas grins, rubbing his beard. “Had the gift ever since I was a child. My momma hoped she could send me to a school, but we never had the money for it. Not that any of those schools would have accepted the son of a whore anyway.”

The incense smoke undulates and folds over itself through the air. “School is overrated,” Caleb murmurs.

“But you went to one, right? That’s where you learned your craft?” Ingvas watches him curiously.

“I went to the Soltryce Academy in Rexxentrum,” admits Caleb. “Many years ago. It was good place.”

“Well, of course it is, that’s why everyone wants in,” says Ingvas, matter-of-fact. “What’re you casting?”

The burning charcoals glow orange-to-gray, radiating a gentle heat. “ _Find Familiar_.”

Faintly suspicious, Ingvas says, “That’s witchcraft, ain’t it?”

“Not more or less than anything else you and I do.” Caleb raises his eyebrows at Ingvas, who shrugs and acquiesces. “It is more arcane than anything else.”

Ingvas leans over and sniffs the smoke appraisingly. “And you get a little animal companion, yeah?”

“My cat, Frumpkin. I lost him when I was arrested.”

Face lighting up, Ingvas says, “Oh, I wouldn’t mind a ship’s cat. You’ll want to watch that around the quartermaster though, he’s allergic. Unless maybe that don’t apply to magic cats.”

“I do not know,” murmurs Caleb, stirring the charcoal, not a fan of this new information. If he sort of half-closes his eyes and loses focus, he can just see the arcane ley lines beginning to appear in the corner of his vision. “Where is your mother now?”

“Oh, still on Darktow,” says Ingvas cheerily. “She’s getting a little older now so I always save some of my share to give to her, got her set up in a nice little apartment so she doesn’t have to work anymore. So maybe I’m not the grand mage she hoped I’d be, but I’d say we’re getting by all right.”

Caleb braces himself for the inevitable “What about your parents?”, but the minutes stretch on, the ship creaking and rocking amongst the sound of surf on rocks. The ley lines shimmer slightly stronger, smoke drifting along them as the incense burns down. “Well,” says Caleb at last. “That is good. Other students from better schools have made it out much worse.” He gestures at his own ragged and tar-stained coat.

“Ah, but you’re free now, aren’t you?” Ingvas shifts to a more comfortable seat, crossing his legs. “Things aren’t so bad after all.”

The ley lines deepen, reaching far into the Fey, and an impossible distance away Caleb feels them reach their target, a faint but happy meow reaching his ears. Caleb smiles. “No, they are not.”

\--

Fjord enters Captain Vandran’s quarters to find not only the captain, but Caleb and Avantika inside as well. “Well,” says Fjord, shutting the door behind him. “Didn’t realize we were havin’ a parlay.” Like a magnet, his gaze goes to the little wooden box sitting on Captain Vandran’s desk, and among the sound of waves against the hull he imagines he can hear it whispering to him.

“Take a seat,” says Captain Vandran, and Fjord tears himself away from the box to pull up the one remaining stool in the cabin, making the third point of the triangle between Avantika and Captain Vandran. Caleb stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a brown spotted cat draped around his shoulders.

Fjord’s nose immediately tingles wildly and he screws it up against a sneeze, his throat closing. “Can we – can we not have the cat in here – allergies,” he says, to Caleb’s raised eyebrows.

Scowling, Caleb snaps his fingers and the cat vanishes in a burst of purple-pink glamour. “Fine.”

“Now,” says Captain Vandran, seated at his desk, and Fjord doesn’t miss how he carefully pulls the little wooden box closer to himself. “Before we head back to Darktow, we are gonna have a conversation about this here crystal and what we intend to do with it next.”

Smiling, Avantika leans on the back two legs of her chair, looking from Captain Vandran to Fjord. “Have any more dreams?” she says.

Both Caleb and Captain Vandran frown at Fjord. “Dreams?” says Caleb.

“Yeah, I, uh… I’ve been having some strange dreams, lately.” The wooden planks under Fjord’s boots are a deep brown, waxed and scuffed to a dull sheen. “About that crystal. I think.”

Captain Vandran tilts his head, frown deepening. “What _kind_ of dreams?”

As Fjord tells them about sinking into dark water and the gaze of the great yellow eye, and the deep voice commanding him to listen, Captain Vandran’s expression grows more and more dire. “Well, no wonder you can’t keep your hands off the damn thing,” he mutters, and says to Avantika, “You been havin’ dreams like this too?”

Feathers in her hat bobbing, Avantika nods.

“What about _you_?” This is to Caleb, who shakes his head. Dissatisfied, Captain Vandran grunts. “How come the two of you are so special?”

Avantika shrugs. “Some people are just chosen,” she says airily, and Caleb snorts.

“It was Avantika’s dreams that lead us to the temple,” says Fjord, not about to let her off the hook. “Have _you_ been havin’ any more dreams?”

The side of her mouth curls up as she eyes him. “One or two.”

“And where do these dreams lead?” says Caleb darkly.

Grinning like a shark, Avantika says, “Into the depths.”

\--

“I don’t like it,” confesses Fjord, seated on the steps to the quarterdeck as the _Tide’s Breath_ sails out of Nicodranas under a crimson sunset. “At least with this ruined temple we were on solid ground and there was a decent chance of loot even if we didn’t get this orb thing sorted. But this? The Diver’s Grave? We’ll all be drowned.”

Caleb leans on the railing, his arms folded, gazing across the deck of the ship. “What is the Diver’s Grave?”

Fjord sighs, his elbows on his knees. “Region of the ocean northwest of Darktow, notorious for sinking ships. They say the ocean floor is so thick with the masts of drowned vessels it looks like a forest.”

“And full of ghosts, no doubt,” Caleb mutters.

“Hey, you don’t joke about that.” Fjord glares pointedly at Caleb; he’s never seen a ghost before but he’s not about to take chances with the undead. “If there’s anywhere that has ghosts, it would be down there.”

The wind ruffles Caleb’s hair, his eyes clear as glass in the ruby light. “And sharks, no doubt.”

“Sharks and giant squid and sea dragons and all sort of toothy things ready to tear us into pieces. I’ve heard stories of a sea hag, lying in wait at the bottom of the ocean to curse any who venture near with her one evil eye.” Fjord laces his fingers together, heels drumming nervously on the stairs. “And how the hell are we supposed to _breathe_?”

“I can handle that,” says Caleb.

Fjord raises his eyebrows. “Now that’s impressive.”

Caleb shrugs.

That brings to mind something else, and Fjord fiddles with the leather cord wrapped around his wrist, deciding how to phrase his question. “Ingvas said you studied at the Soltryce Academy.”

Slow and measured, Caleb answers, “I did.”

“How long were you there for?”

Caleb’s profile turns hard as stone. “A little over a year.”

“That’s it?” says Fjord, chewing a callus on his thumb. His tusks, recently filed down, twinge a little. “You must’ve crammed in an awful lot.”

“I moved on to… private tutelage.” Caleb’s voice rasps like Fjord’s never heard before, dark and bitter as ichor. His arms folded across his chest, Caleb squints into the bloody sun, light glinting on his copper hair and the hard bones of his cheek and nose. He reminds Fjord of a hawk, somehow, soaring high and lonely above the rest of the world.

Sighing, Fjord laces his hands together again. “See, here’s the thing,” he says slowly. “You had an expensive training. You’re good at what you do – real good. And yet somehow you ended up in rags and chains in a Concord brig before throwin’ your lot in with a bunch of pirates. So what happened that you went from a star student to ship’s mage on a ragged privateer?” Fjord fixes his gaze on Caleb, watching for any shift in facial expression. “And does it have somethin’ to do with the way you went all catatonic after setting that man-o-war on fire?”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitches, but he remains silent, the wind toying with the ragged edges of his scarf.

“You know, we used to have a sailor on the crew, decent fellow, but he’d had a terrible bite from a dog when he was a kid and ever since then the second he got near one, he’d clam up and turn the color of bone, kind of like you did.” Fjord pauses, adds quietly, “When you’d get burned, Caleb?”

“You know,” says Caleb suddenly, rounding on Fjord, “if I have, it is none of your business –”

“Sure it is,” says Fjord. “You’re on my crew, aren’t you?”

Caleb freezes, mouth slightly open, blue eyes wide, freckles scattered across his face. The _Tide’s Breath_ creaks and rocks as she glides over a wave, water splashing against her hull. “I was, ah… All right, I thought I was going to be something, someday, a long time ago, and now I don’t,” he says, hoarse. “I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ve harmed people. I had a chance, and I fucked it up.”

This, Fjord understands, and it is oddly reassuring to find Caleb on not-so-different ground from himself. “I appreciate you sharing that. But we’ve all harmed people, here.”

The wind steals the bitter laugh from Caleb’s lips. “Not like I have.”

“Now how do I know that if you won’t tell me what you did?”

Caleb stares at him. “You know, I am beginning to like you, do not fuck it up.”

An absurd affection for this caustic, weedy ginger wizard surges up in Fjord, and he laughs. “I’ll do my best,” he swears. “And listen, it don’t have to be today, but if someday you could tell me why your past is so checkered in flame, I’d appreciate it. And I’ll trade you my story in return.”

“God,” says Caleb, and rubs at his face. “Ja. Maybe someday. I will have an answer for you that is better than this, I promise.”

“That’s all I ask.” Sighing, Fjord stretches out his legs in front of him. “Of course, that means we gotta survive whatever the hell is waiting for us in the Diver’s Grave first.” A thought occurs to him as he thinks back over the parlay earlier today. “Was it just me, or did Avantika seem like she _really_ wanted that orb?”

“More than usual, you mean?” Caleb remarks dryly, leaning back against the rail.

“Yeah.” It was the hungry expression on her face that raised the hairs on the back of Fjord’s neck; it made him think of the orphanage on lean days, when kids were so desperate for a meal they’d do just about anything. “Wonder if she’s affected by it same as I am?”

Caleb sighs heavily, chin propped pensively on one hand. “What do you do with the orb, have your dreams revealed that?”

“Mine ain’t,” says Fjord. “Can’t speak to hers.”

“Mm.” Brow furrowed, Caleb considers his scuffed boots. “As much as I have my reservations, I would rather you have it than her.” He pauses and adds reluctantly, “I fear what she would do with it.”

Intrigued, Fjord asks, “Why?”

Even more unwillingly, Caleb answers, “She reminds me of myself.”

For someone so cagey about his past, Caleb sure keeps revealing a lot about himself, Fjord thinks, but decides not to comment. “Yeah, I ain’t keen on her havin’ it either.”

“So then, how about this?” Caleb turns to Fjord, hands pressed together in front of himself. “Do you and I agree to work together, that you have the orb on you, and Avantika does not get it?”

Considering, Fjord nods slowly and says, “I could be amenable to that.”

“You seem clever, I think we can manage it,” mutters Caleb to himself.

Fjord chooses not to take offense at this. “I think we should be able to, yeah.” He clears his throat, drawing his legs back up, and braces his elbows on his knees. “You seem to be good at looking out for yourself.”

“Well, some days more than others, but you catch my drift.”

“I do,” says Fjord, looking up steadily at Caleb. “And like I said before, I hope you learn that you can trust me.”

“Ja.” Caleb huffs out a deep breath, shadows pooling under his jaw as the sun dips below the horizon. “I would like to. Let’s make it work.”

Smiling, Fjord holds out his hand, and Caleb hesitantly takes it, his scarred grasp fitting against Fjord’s callused hand. “We’ll make it work.”


	8. Act III, Scene 2

Fjord floats in dark cold water, naked. He has no breath, and so therefore no time, and he drifts with no thought or care.

_WATCHING._

Yellow light floods Fjord as the great eye opens. Suspended in its gaze, Fjord stares into the slit pupil that stretches taller than him. “What do you want from me?”

_LEARN. GROW. CONSUME._

“Do you want me to take the orb?”

_POTENTIAL._

The water rushes past Fjord, blasting him, though he does not move with the current, the golden light still shining through the bubbles. Visions crowd his eyes – sunken ships carpeting the sea floor, a ghostly hand parting a curtain of seaweed, an empty stone basin with ancient runes carved in the rim. As suddenly as it started, the barrage stops, and Fjord gasps despite the water filling his lungs. “Is that – is that where I’m meant to go?”

_CONSUME._

“I –” says Fjord, and in a sudden panic he wakes up.

Panting, Fjord sits up in his bed. The half-moon shines through the window of Fjord’s cabin on the _Tide’s Breath_ , his shirt drenched and his face and neck dripping with sweat. Gasping for air, Fjord wipes perspiration off his face and leans back on his hands, his heart hammering like he ran a mile.

Needing fresh air, Fjord gets to his feet and pads barefoot out onto deck, sighing as the evening breeze cuts through his damp hair and the sweat on his bare chest and back. Darktow rises above the docked _Tide’s Breath,_ torches glimmering along the road to the Plank King and on various buildings in the city.

Only then does he notice the dark figure standing at the prow of the ship.

Fear sticks Fjord’s breath in his throat and he freezes, trying to piece out who it is. Too small to be Caspa. Too tall to be Divastiss. Too slender to be Captain Vandran. Fjord waits, counting out fifteen seconds, but the figure does not move. “Hello?” says Fjord, approaching slowly.

No response.

Cautiously, Fjord walks up, close enough now that he can make out the coat and hood covering the figure from behind. He thinks he knows them. “Caleb?”

The figure starts and turns, and sure enough, it is Caleb, with circles carved under his eyes and a deeply haunted expression etched on his face. The cat, Frumpkin, nests inside his hood across his shoulders, eyes gleaming in the dark, its tail curled around Caleb’s neck. “Ah,” Caleb rasps. “Fjord. I could not sleep.”

“I had a feeling as such.” Fjord leans his elbows on the railing next to Caleb, gazing across the docks. “Bad dreams?”

After a long, long moment, Caleb nods. “Ja,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” sighs Fjord. “It’s the night for it, it seems.”

Caleb’s eyes flash in the moonlight as he glances at Fjord. “What did you dream?”

“I was underwater again, and it was just dark, and cold, all around me… and then there was that big yellow eye, like all the other dreams, just watching me.” Fjord clears his throat, his sinuses prickling, and he ignores the cat looking at him. “Except this time it had more to say.”

Caleb answers a moment too slow, as if wrenching himself back into the conversation. “What did it say?”

Sifting back through his memory of the dream, Fjord says, “Watching. Learn. Grow. Consume. Potential.”

“Hm.”

Caleb says nothing more, and Fjord lets the silence last, listening to the waves lapping against the boat and the docks. The breeze that drifts by carries the sharp scents of salt and seaweed, and every now and then a distant shout rises up from Darktow. A faint rumbling emanates from Caleb’s hood, and Fjord looks over, startled, before he realizes it’s the cat, which looks back at him coolly, claws kneading and flexing into Caleb’s shoulder.

“You asked, the other week, what my story is,” says Caleb suddenly, harshness clipping his syllables. “I have been thinking about that, and it is time I tell you.” He says it like he’s pronouncing a sentence on himself.

Frowning, Fjord says, “You don’t – you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, if we are going into this together, you need to know – what sort of man you are working with.” Caleb forces the words out. “I need to know if you can trust me.”

“Okay,” says Fjord, gentle. Trying not to spook the hawk.

Caleb takes a deep breath, his hands gripping the rail so tight his knuckles whiten. “I am going to tell you the story of how I murdered my mother and father.”

Oh.

Letting out a slow breath, Fjord laces his fingers together and reminds himself not to judge before he’s heard the whole story. From the look on Caleb’s face, he’s doing more than enough judging anyway. “When I was younger, I grew up in a small township outside of Rexxentrum called Blumenthal,” Caleb continues, forcing each word out. “My mother’s name was Una. My father’s name was Leofric. Everyone was very excited about me when I was young. I was bright, and confident. People used to say I glided through life and everything just worked for me.”

Fjord pictures a child Caleb, freckles dotting his round face, his eyes bright above a gap-toothed smile. It’s hard to reconcile with the grim man beside him.

“As I got older, it became clear that I had a – a knack for the arcane. Everyone talked about this Soltryce Academy, maybe I would go there someday. It’s, uh – the way they do things at that Academy, they don’t take all-comers, they look for the diamond in the rough and every couple of years they find one. But when I was a young man, adolescent, really, they found three of us. Another boy and a girl, and we were accepted.”

“Who were the other two?” asks Fjord quietly.

“Their names were Astrid and Eodwulf, they were from Blumenthal as well.” Caleb’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Anyway, we went there. I studied for a year. I worked so hard. It came easier to me than the other two, but they were also very accomplished. There were other students from other parts of the Empire there, and a little over a year of, of learning all they had to impart, I met a man named Trent Ikithon. He became our teacher.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell for Fjord. “Who was he?”

“One of the Cerberus Assembly, you know, the people who oversee magic across the entire Empire. He handpicked all three of us again, and we left the school proper and went with him to a home out in the countryside where he trained us. It was a good time,” says Caleb, with bitter nostalgia. “We believed in the Empire, we were going to keep it strong.”

“Caleb,” says Fjord quietly.

“He was cruel.” Caleb continues, relentless, his voice drifting out across the moonlit bay. “He hurt us a lot. Made us go through extreme circumstances, but we got strong. I also fell in love, but that’s another story,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Curiosity burns at Fjord, but he bites down on it; there’ll be time to ask later. “We rose through the ranks,” Caleb says. “It was the Empire over all, and eventually, he wanted to test our allegiance, so strangers were brought in – traitors.” His voice shakes, turning dark. “Disgusting people, traitors to this empire, and we killed them.”

A chill creeps along Fjord’s back. “And you were just – you were children?”

“Teenagers, ja.”

“And he made you do that?”

“We wanted to.” Sourness twists Caleb’s voice, his face etched with disgust and pain. “A few months of this, of studying, of a little bit of torture, a little bit of murdering dissidents and traitors and deviants.”

With a sick, sinking feeling, Fjord knows where this is going. “And then one day they brought in your parents, didn’t they.”

“No.” Caleb exhales shakily, the cat on his shoulders flipping its tail back and forth. “We were ready to graduate, and the last test of our allegiance was – I’m getting ahead of myself. I went home, I went on a trip home and visited my parents and when I was there, in the middle of the night, I awoke and overheard them talking, and went to the stair and listened to them talk about revolution and tearing the Empire down, and I felt disgraced and shame for my family. My mother and my father, who were so wonderful to me when I was a child –” his voice wavers, breaking “– and were so happy for me to go to the Academy and believed in the Empire _so_ _much._ I went back to the school and when the three of us were summoned and told what was expected of us, I knew what had to be done.”

Fjord wants it to stop, he wants it to be over, sick horror fills his gut but he stays silent and listens, bearing witness to Caleb’s pain. “We went to Eodwulf’s home first, and we stood by as he killed his parents. We went to Astrid’s house, and had dinner with them, and she poisoned them. Then we went to my home and we grabbed a horse cart, and in the middle of the night, placed it against the door to the home and I set it on fire.” Caleb’s voice cracks.

“So that’s why you have a hard time with fire,” says Fjord quietly. “Caleb, I am so –”

“I am not done yet,” says Caleb, hard and sharp as a knife. “As soon as I heard my mother and father screaming inside… I was so sure, I was _so sure,_ until I wasn’t, and I broke a bit.”

Fjord frowns. “Broke?”

“Ja.” Caleb rubs a hand over his face, cups his throat. “I went to an asylum for a number of years. I-I-I-I broke. I broke. I don’t remember so well what happened to me there. It was quite a number of years. Years later, a woman was there, and she, another patient, put hands on me, and she took the clouds away. She took it all away, and not just my madness, but the –” Caleb stops, swallows, forces out “– the fake memories that Ikithon put in my head of my parents.”

As Caleb pauses, his meaning slowly sinks in, and Fjord’s horror turns ice-cold. “It was a false memory?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter –”

“Wait wait wait, hang on, of course it fuckin’ matters –”

“No, no, it doesn’t, because I still _wanted_ to do it when I did it.” Caleb’s eyes burn into Fjord’s, leaving no room for quarter. “I should have – it doesn’t matter. I’m a disgusting person. Anyway, all that gone, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I ran. Not right away; I pretended like nothing had changed for several weeks. She went stark raving mad fifteen minutes later herself, the woman who helped me. I killed one of Trent’s people there, and took this.” He pulls out a charm on a leather cord from under his shirt, the cat shifting restlessly. The charm itself is a small, crude thing, bone and metal twisted around each other. “This has been keeping me hidden for years. For five years.”

Fjord lets out a long, slow breath. “Then how’d you get arrested?”

A little sad laugh cracks Caleb’s dour exterior. “I was trying to break into a library, believe it or not. Looking for… well, it doesn’t matter now. I got caught, I lied, I said I was from Nicodranas, they were going to send me there for trial.” Caleb shrugs. “And now here I am.” Brittle tension radiates off of him as he awaits Fjord’s judgement.

“That’s terrible, Caleb,” says Fjord quietly.

Caleb’s rigid posture slumps slightly for the first time, judgement received. “Yes, it is.”

“No, I mean –” Fjord hastily amends his statement. “That’s terrible that it happened to you.”

Caleb glances at him with a strange and dreadful expression, the hint of tears glimmering in his eyes. “ _I_ did it –”

“Caleb, you were _brainwashed_ , you were lied to –”

“It was my hands!”

His voice echoes harshly on the water, fire in his eyes, and the cat stirs restlessly on Caleb’s shoulders. Easy-like, like gentling a horse, Fjord reaches out and touches Caleb on the arm. “It was,” he acknowledges. “But it weren’t your choice.”

Caleb shivers. “You don’t know that,” he mutters.

“No, I think I do.” Fjord takes that Caleb hasn’t shaken his hand off yet as a good sign. “Caleb, I’ve served under a number of men, and I know what it’s like when the person in authority doesn’t have your best interests at heart. Not that it was ever as bad as what you went through, but enough that I understand.”

Clearing his throat, Caleb wraps his coat around himself. “You said you would trade your story for mine,” he says hoarsely.

“I did, didn’t I.” Fjord sighs, leaning back on the railing, not entirely sure how to follow after Caleb’s tale. “I don’t know if there’s that much to tell. I grew up in an orphanage, never knew my parents, the headmaster gave me my last name. It wasn’t an easy time, I got picked on a lot – half-orc, y’know, and I was kind of a – misproportioned kid, shall we say –”

“Is that why you file down your tusks?” asks Caleb. “Because they would tease you about them?”

Fjord stammers and stares at him, cut short. “You noticed?”

“People’s teeth don’t normally get shorter overnight,” he says, too quietly to be a dig.

“Oh,” says Fjord. “Huh. Yeah. Anyway, when I was fourteen I got myself onto a ship as a cabin boy, started working my way up from there. Fell in with Vandran and his crew about six years ago, he’s been a great mentor. Made me quartermaster about half a year ago. And, well, that’s about it.” He smiles a little at Caleb.

“Much less eventful than mine,” murmurs Caleb wryly, which is what Fjord was thinking but didn’t want to say.

Yawning, Fjord rubs at his jaw, the sweat on his skin dried cool. “Well, listen,” he says. “I appreciate you telling me, Caleb. I appreciate the trust you put in me, and I hope to repay that someday.”

A muscle twitches in Caleb’s jaw, his eyes unreadable. “Thank you.”

“So what’re you trying to do now? Get revenge on Ikithon?”

Caleb lets out a long, slow breath, staring out over the water. “Survive.”

\--

The voyage to the Diver’s Grave is unremarkable, no weather worse than a mild shower. Though the _Squall-Eater_ and the _Tide’s Breath_ travel together, Caleb sees no more of Avantika on his ship, which he can only be relieved for. The orb stays with Captain Vandran, locked in his iron-bound chest; Caleb keeps an eye on Fjord, too, but he seems content to leave the orb where it is. If Fjord asked Vandran to have the orb and was rebuffed, Caleb doesn’t know.

When they arrive in the vicinity of the Diver’s Grave, the sky is a cloudless, pristine blue, and the ocean so deeply indigo it becomes purple in the shadow of the _Tide’s Breath_. Somehow this perfect weather is more ominous to Caleb than anything else, as if it hides the truth of what lies below.

Most of the day is spent in ship’s business, the two vessels crawling over the area and sending crew to dive down, attempting to find the center of the grave. By the time Vandran and Avantika are both reasonably sure they’re over it, the sun has begun to dip towards the horizon, too late in the day for any extended investigation.

“Wigogast, come with me,” says Vandran, clapping Caleb on the shoulder, Fjord behind him. Caleb shoots a curious glance at Fjord, who shrugs, and they follow Vandran into his cabin. Sighing, Vandran shuts the door behind them. “So the plan is for Avantika and you two, and I’m guessing that Molly fellow and who knows who else to go down, bright and early tomorrow, and investigate.” He sighs, leaning against his desk and folding his arms. “How do you boys feel about going down now, tonight?”

Fjord’s eyebrows shoot up. “At night?”

“Sure, you can make light, can’t you?” Vandran gestures vaguely at Caleb. “I want you to go down ahead of Avantika, scout everything out before she sees it. No surprises tomorrow.”

Caleb immediately starts running through spells in his head, cataloguing what he knows, what he will need to know, what he will need to be prepared for. “Ja,” he mutters. “Okay. How much earlier before?”

“Now?” says Fjord.

Immediately, Caleb cuts him off, saying, “No, I need time to prepare, to go through my spells, maybe… give me some time to rest, and then I will be ready.”

Fjord and Vandran exchange looks. “Before dawn,” says Fjord. “Wee hours of the morning. We can go down for a few hours, check it out, then come back up in time to join the official party?”

“Ja,” says Caleb.

“All right.” Fjord squares his shoulders. “Sounds like a plan.”

\--

Fjord takes the chance to snatch a few hours of sleep as well, secretly hoping that another dream will provide him more guidance. But his sleep is restful and unbroken, and he comes to consciousness to rapping on his door, instantly alert. “Hello?”

“Ja, it is me, can I come in?”

“Wh- hang on, yeah,” and Fjord fumbles to pull on his shirt. He crosses his little cabin in only a few steps and opens the door to Caleb. “It time?”

“Almost, but before, I was wondering –” Reaching inside his coat, Caleb pulls his two books out of their leather holsters and very cautiously holds them out to Fjord. “Do you have a chest or something to put these in? I don’t want to take them under the water.”

Even in the moonlight, Fjord can make out the wariness on Caleb’s face. “Yeah, of course,” says Fjord, and eases the books out of Caleb’s hand. Caleb hangs on a second longer than he needs to, his fingers lingering on the worn leather. “I’ll put ‘em right here,” and he makes a bit of a show out of unlocking his own iron-bound chest, placing the books inside, locking the chest again, and returning the key on its leather cord to his neck.

Caleb huffs out a breath. “Right,” he says. “Actually, ah…” and he steps inside the cabin and strips off his coat as well.

Heat rises to Fjord’s cheeks. “Uhhh…”

“What?” Caleb shoots him a dry look, folding his coat up and tossing it on the bed. “No sense taking this down either.” He unbuckles his leather book holsters as well, placing them with a bit more care, and loops his scarf more securely around his neck.

“Right,” says Fjord, internally cursing himself for being an idiot. “Yeah. Makes sense.” He armors up, pulling on his leather vest and bracers and boots, and buckling his long knife at his waist. “Ready?”

Now dressed in shirt and trousers and boots, spell pouch hanging from his belt, Caleb nods. “Let us go.”

As they walk out onto the deck, the moonlight etches their shadows clear behind them, dim blue light washing over the _Tide’s Breath_. As they cross the deck to the rail, Caleb rolls his sleeves up, revealing bandages covering his arms from palm to elbow, wrapped and tied firmly in place. Fjord thinks of fire, and says nothing.

Captain Vandran stands at the rail, and as they approach, he nods to them. “Ready?”

Fishing a leather cord out of his pocket, Caleb ties his hair back in a short ponytail, a faint orange light shimmering around him briefly, and nods once to Vandran. Fjord climbs up onto the rail and pauses, holding onto the rigging. “Captain, should I be takin’ the orb down with me?”

He can’t help the eagerness that creeps into his voice, and maybe that’s why Captain Vandran squints and says, “No, not now. Like I said. No surprises.”

Squashing his disappointment, Fjord says, “All right. Caleb?”

Caleb pulls something out of his spell pouch – a short bit of straw, it looks like – and cups his hands around it, bringing his hands up to his mouth. A tingle ghosts over Fjord’s skin and the air on his tongue briefly dips cold. Seemingly satisfied, Caleb nods and tucks the straw back in his pouch. “That should do it,” he says to Fjord, climbing up onto the rail beside him.

A thrill of excitement runs through Fjord as he looks at the dark water below them. “How long will it last for?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“Perfect.” Fjord salutes to Captain Vandran and dives, pushing off the ship with his arms stretched above his head.

He arcs through the air for a moment before hitting the water with a splash, sinking in to the velvety blue-blackness. While he’s still by the ship, Fjord takes an experimental breath, forcing himself to open his mouth and inhale deep. Bitter brine floods his mouth and nose and for a moment his body fights it, and his lungs burn and he chokes, and then –

The discomfort eases, and Fjord exhales and inhales cautiously. He can feel the liquid swishing through his mouth and nose, and it’s _strange_ as all hell, but he can breathe.

A splash sounds, dissipating through the water, and a golden glow blooms at the edge of Fjord’s vision. Heart suddenly pounding, he whips around, but it’s only Caleb, swimming downwards with his four little globes of light trailing him. An octopus jets along at Caleb’s side, its tentacles curling, soft skin patterned with the same tawny spots as Caleb’s cat. “Is that –” Fjord starts to say, and stops at the strangeness of his words reverberating through water rather than air, his syllables deepened and elongated. “Is that octopus your cat?”

Caleb nods, strands of hair that escaped his ponytail floating around his face. “Let us go.” His voice too is distorted and warbled.

They swim downwards, Caleb’s lights illuminating specks and bits of matter drifting through the sea water. The Diver’s Grave is a reef, the ocean floor treacherously shallow, and after several minutes of descent Fjord begins to see the shapes of shipwrecks rising from the sandy floor. The reef itself is further ahead, and Fjord points in that direction before kicking through the water, Caleb following.

Being able to breathe takes some of the edge off the exertion, but all too soon Fjord’s shoulders begin to burn as he breaststrokes through the water. Glancing back at Caleb, he shouts in alarm at his suddenly-grotesque face before realizing the octopus has wrapped itself around Caleb’s head, face over the top part of his like a mask. “What the _hell_?” says Fjord.

Caleb hangs in the water, bemused. “I can see through his eyes,” and he points at the octopus. “He sees better in the dark than I do.”

“Huh,” is all Fjord can say to that. “Handy.”

They continue on towards the jagged black shape of the reef, angling towards the sea bed. A school of gunmetal-gray fish swims alongside them, attracted by Caleb’s dancing lights, and Fjord keeps a sharp eye out for sharks. Eventually they alight on the sea floor, clouds of silt rising around their feet. “Where next?” asks Caleb.

_LISTEN._

Letting instinct guide him, Fjord skirts around the side of the reef. Behind a jagged outcropping, a black gash yawns in the rock, a faint but distinct current flowing into it. “This way,” says Fjord.

Caleb draws up beside him, the lights floating around him and glinting eerily off the glassy eyes of the octopus on his head. “Oh boy,” he says, very quietly, the water carrying his syllables.

A hoarse screech sounds behind them and cold claws grab Fjord by the throat from the back.

Choking, Fjord grabs the knife at his waist, stinging pain piercing his neck. Before he can get the blade free a thick, slimy tail scaled in blue-silver wraps around him, pinning his arms to his body, spiny fish fins flared. Like a cloud, his crimson blood blooms in the water around him, and the thing yanks him backwards, off the ground.

A burst of silver-white energy streaks past Fjord. The thing holding Fjord shrieks, tail constricting. Fjord snarls and kicks, but the claws pressing into his throat tighten, and the edges of his vision darken –

Two more spells shimmer past, illuminating the black water, and the thing shudders and howls with the impact, white sparks bursting around Fjord. With a final gurgle, it goes limp, and Fjord hurriedly pries its grip off, kicking away the body. “What the _hell_ ,” he says, and turns to see the corpse of a horrid fish-man hybrid floating in the water, its face whiskered and carp-like but its torso muscular and human, all covered in blue and grey scales.

Caleb stands on the sea floor in a circle of amber light, one hand still upraised to cast the spells. Taking a deep breath, Fjord says, “Thank you,” and swims back down to land beside Caleb. “Appreciated.”

Expression unreadable behind the octopus mask, Caleb looks at him. “We should check the tunnel before we go in to make sure nothing is there to ambush us.”

“Good – good thinking,” says Fjord, who to his private chagrin had been fully intending to walk right in. “How do you wanna do that?”

The octopus disengages from Caleb’s head and swims towards the tunnel, long tentacles pulsing behind it as it expels water, pushing itself forward. Caleb’s eyes have turned an eerie flat blue-white, and his hand drifts out to the side, fastening on Fjord’s sleeve as the octopus disappears into the dark gash between the rocks.

For what feels like a long, long time Fjord waits, listening intently for any other approaching mermen. The watery, ambient sound of the ocean fills his ears, and a faint, aching moan that might be a whale echoes from a long way away.

“Nothing,” says Caleb, his eyes returning to normal. “It is clear, let’s go.”

Drawing his knife, Fjord strides forward, slow but determined through the water. Clouds of silt and sand stir up around his and Caleb’s feet, faint flecks glinting in the mage-light. As they enter the tunnel, the octopus swims forward to wrap itself back around Caleb’s head, suckered tentacles curling firmly in place. Coral covers the reef, strange multicolored fingers and fans waving faintly in the current, anemones like fleshy alien flowers. Further into the tunnel, though, the coral gives way to seaweed, thick, slimy, and deep brown-green.

It should be terrifying – the low visibility, the eerie quiet, the movement of the seaweed out of the corner of his eye – but the adrenaline humming in Fjord’s veins is the thrill of the chase, not the chased. If whatever entity that guides him and Avantika forward – this Uk’atoa – has sent him here before her, then any secrets here are for _him_ , him and Caleb –

Caleb shouts, stopping short as a ghostly figure drifts directly out of the wall and across the tunnel in front of them, disappearing back into the other rock face. Heart pounding, Fjord freezes. Even after the apparition is gone, he thinks he can still see where it was, the echo of its pearly white visage floating in his minds’ eye. “Told – told you there were ghosts,” he manages, clearing his throat.

Raising an eyebrow, Caleb snorts and looks pointedly down at Fjord’s hand clenched on his arm. Cheeks warming in the cold water, Fjord lets go; it’s hard to tell, what with an octopus covering his face, but it looks like Caleb flushes a little too. “Scared?” says Caleb.

“No,” retorts Fjord automatically. “You?”

“Yes,” says Caleb, but it’s not an admission, it’s a challenge. He takes another step forward and another, copper hair trailing behind him.

Fjord follows after, now fully expecting skeletal hands to shoot out from behind the curtain of seaweed and grab him any moment, and he stays as much in the middle of the tunnel as possible. Not long after, though, the tunnel splits, paths leading left and right with a large, tangled clump of underwater vegetation at the junction. “Which way?” asks Caleb.

_LISTEN._

Closing his eyes, Fjord thinks back on his latest dream, tries to picture the little yellow crystal at his heart, leading him onwards. If he turns to the right, the water flowing through feels ever so slightly colder. “This way.”

He glances behind at Caleb just in time to see long tendrils of seaweed snake out from the clump and wrap themselves around Caleb’s wrist and neck. Shouting in wordless warning, Fjord darts forward, Caleb choking and digging his heels in as the seaweed tries to drag him back in. Fjord’s knife trails bubbles through the water as he slashes through the tendrils, dark green pieces hacked free. With another two swipes, Fjord frees Caleb from the seaweed and drags him clear, down the right tunnel. “You all right?” says Fjord, panting, and only then realizes he has an arm barred across Caleb’s chest, Caleb’s back flush with Fjord’s front. Hastily, Fjord lets go and steps away.

Methodically, Caleb adjusts and tightens the bandages wrapped around his arm. “Fine,” he says. “Do you think we tell Avantika about that one or not?”

“Maybe we leave it as a surprise.”

This next tunnel is narrower, and lined with seaweed as well. As Caleb and Fjord continue down it, more dark tendrils reach out towards them like so many hands, phantom touches just brushing their skin, not quite close enough to ensnare. “Hsst!” says Caleb, holding Fjord back, as a dark figure flits across ahead of them.

Fjord holds his breath, waiting for an attack. “Ghost or merrow?” he mutters.

“Or neither?” says Caleb darkly.

Keeping his hand firmly on his knife, Fjord walks forward.

The tunnel meanders, deeper into the rock, and if cold whispers across the back of Fjord’s neck he tells himself it’s just a current in the water. After about ten minutes, he catches a glint up ahead of something reflecting Caleb’s light and stops short, throwing out a hand to halt Caleb too. “See that?” he whispers.

Caleb nods.

They both stand in silence, waiting, the water in Fjord’s ears mimicking the muffled pulse of his own heart. “I think we go forward,” he says slowly. Caleb brings up his hand in a familiar gesture (it surprises Fjord briefly, that he already knows Caleb’s mannerisms so well) to start sparks around his fingers before scowling, only his mage lights illuminating the water around them.

Fjord can’t help but laugh, and Caleb scowls at him too. “All right, let’s go,” he says, and strides forward.

As Fjord approaches, the glinting resolves itself into coins, mounds and mounds of them filling a rough-walled cavern not much larger than Captain Vandran’s quarters. And not just coin – precious gems shine red and blue and green among the metal, and not just weapons of all shapes and sizes but cutlery, dishes, and other trinkets make up the piled loot as well, all with a thin patina from the silt and saltwater. From the middle of this bounty rises a crude pedestal, topped with a roughly-hewn bowl of stone, and an even cruder throne has been hacked into the opposite wall.

As Fjord takes a step forward, the ground _crunches_.

With dawning horror, Fjord looks down and realizes the ground between him and the treasure pile, over a yard of it, is covered in bones. Humanoid bones. It was a ribcage under his foot that snapped. Caleb mutters a curse under his breath. “This ain’t a good place,” says Fjord, stating the obvious.

Caleb kicks off the wall, swimming to avoid the bones underfoot, and touches down lightly by the pedestal. “This is old,” he mutters, the water bringing the words farther than air would have. “Ancient.” And he stands over it, occasionally moving his fingers in complicated gestures. Only then does Fjord notice the rust-red stains on the basin of the bowl and the carved runes spiraling around the rim.

“Caleb…” he says slowly.

_LISTEN._

Cold fingers prickle the back of Fjord’s neck, and he starts and looks around, but sees nothing. With dawning horror, he cranes his head to the rock above them.

A dark figure clings to the ceiling, her long tangled black hair floating around her face and emaciated form, and Fjord catches the gleam of a single, terrible yellow eye.

“Look out!” he shouts, pointing his knife up at her, and Caleb jumps back just as the hag launches herself downwards at him. She lands on the pedestal, bony arms and legs splayed out, and grins a grin of sharklike teeth. Grabbing a handful of coins from the floor, Fjord hurls them at her, hoping to distract her, but they don’t make it as far as he hoped in the water, instead falling slowly at the pedestal’s base. With a shriek that chills Fjord’s bones, the hag swipes at Caleb with impossibly long fingers, but the orange light flares around him and her claws scrape off it as if off a shield.

Fjord charges at her and slashes straight for the ribs with his knife, but she twists away, jumping off the pedestal and to the wall, disappearing among the hanging tangle of seaweed. Hissing under his breath, Fjord darts up beside Caleb. “Where’d she go?”

“There – no – there!” Caleb turns, his back to Fjord’s, his finger tracking a ripple in the seaweed curtaining the walls. The same silver-white magic he used to blast the merrow crackles on his finger, ready to fire. Their shoulders pressed together, Fjord rotates with him, watching frantically not only for the hag but for any ghosts.

The hag bursts out of the seaweed four feet to the left of the last visible movement and Fjord yells, slashing wildly as she crashes into him. Blood pours into the water as she knocks Fjord off his feet, dragging him through the water, his knife digging into her clavicle. White sparks burst off her as Caleb strikes, and she shrieks.

Growling, Fjord twists his knife into her, the blade scraping against bone, and kicks furiously into her bony torso as she drives him up towards the seaweed-covered wall. The slimy tendrils tickle the back of his neck, reaching for him, curling around his arms and throat –

Amongst all the salt and brine, the medicinal taste of licorice lingers on Fjord’s tongue, and he frowns before sudden adrenaline floods his system.

He headbutts the hag right in her ugly face, kicking her savagely, and everything he does is just a little bit faster and he kicks off the wall and propels them through the water, slamming her into the basin and his knife drives down her ribcage and carves a line through skin and bone as her dark blood floats into the water and she _screams_ as her claws scratch down Fjord’s front and her eyes are yellow yellow yellow like the orb and _POTENTIAL_ booms in his mind and Fjord takes his long knife and drives it into her throat, up under her chin.

She gurgles, and her claws pierce Fjord in her death spasms but the pain barely registers under the haze of adrenaline. Chest heaving, teeth bared, Fjord holds tight and watches her eyes go glassy and still, her mouth hanging open, hair waving gently in the ocean current.

“Fjord,” says Caleb quietly, as if from a long distance away.

_CONSUME._

The water vibrates around him and Fjord swivels his head, looking around for the source of power in the room. Surely, among all these gems –

“Fjord!” and Caleb grabs him by the front of his shirt, dragging him off the pedestal. “Look!”

The sudden energy drains out of Fjord and he hangs limp in Caleb’s grasp, supported by the water. “God,” Fjord mumbles, the pain of his wounds reasserting itself, blood dissipating in the water around him. “Was that – d’you do that?”

“Ja, it’ll wear off,” and Caleb pats Fjord on the cheek. Dazed, Fjord tries to wrap his mind around this as Caleb lets go of him, leaving floating, and strides over to the pedestal and pushes the hag’s body away. It floats up against a wall and is immediately entangled in the seaweed

Pulling himself together, Fjord swims over and realizes that the hag blood spilled over the basin has not floated away, but instead been drawn into the stone bowl, clinging to the sides. Some of the runes around the edge glow crimson, and with a queer thrill Fjord realizes that similar runes on the cave walls have lit up the same dull red, just visible through gaps in the seaweed. “What do these say?” says Fjord, awed. “You can read ‘em, right?”

“I could, but they are not a language,” Caleb murmurs, running his fingers over the runes on the bowl. “These are runes, they are… they are meant to _channel_ , to tap into some greater power…”

_LISTEN._

If Fjord holds his breath and pays attention, he can feel the magnetic pull on the edges of his consciousness, back towards the throne. He approaches slowly, wary for any sudden threat, but nothing jumps out at him from the dark vegetation. A red velvet cushion lies on the stone seat, the plush fabric half-blackened and disintegrating with wet. Using his knife, Fjord tears through the velvet like paper, revealing a soft golden glow among the down filling. Pale fluff drifts into the water as Fjord reaches down and seizes the round, yellow crystal –

His hands are not his own, but human, rough and callused. His body is not his own, clad in worn leathers and many belts. He is no longer underwater but in a desert, lips dry and stinging, throat parched, the sand dunes around him bleached pale as bone under a night sky and a crescent-thin moon. Black blood pools from the body lying on the ground in front of him, sinking into the sand. The sword in Fjord’s other hand drips blood as well.

_CONSUME._

With a gasp Fjord comes back to his surroundings, the orb burning in his hand. “Fjord?” says Caleb, concerned.

“Found another one of these,” says Fjord huskily, holding the orb out to him. “I think – I think maybe you should take it, I just had a vision, and –”

_CONSUME._

The urge to seize the orb and drive it into himself grips Fjord, and his hand jerks towards his abdomen before he resists, gritting his teeth. “Take it!”

_CONSUME._

Caleb’s eyes widen and he rips the orb out of Fjord’s hand before Fjord can grab it back. “A vision of what?”

“I – I wasn’t myself, I was in a desert, and there was – there was a body, I think – I think I killed him –”

Frowning, Caleb pulls a small paring knife from his belt and tears off a scrap from his shirt sleeve, wrapping the orb in the fabric. “Did you know who they were?”

“No.”

Sighing, Caleb tucks the orb into his component pouch, and for a brief moment Fjord experiences the wild urge to tackle Caleb and take the crystal back. “Well, I guess we got what we came here for,” he says. The octopus uncurls and curls one tentacle lazily around his ear. “Avantika will be _pissed_.”

“Yeah, she will.” Fjord can’t help feeling a little satisfied.

Caleb straightens his shoulders, taking one final look around the room. “It will be dawn soon, we should go back.”

“Wait wait wait, hold on.” Stepping back up beside the stone bowl, the runes still glowing red, Fjord says, “We’re just gonna leave this pedestal?”

The octopus draws back, revealing Caleb’s face, as he turns back and frowns at Fjord. The golden light of his globes diffuses through the water, warm and dim. “What are your goals, Fjord?” he says quietly.

“Well, uh, that orb, I guess,” says Fjord. “I dunno. Just seems a shame to leave this behind.” 

Caleb’s frown deepens. “You think it has something to do with the orbs? Do you think this releases Uk’atoa?”

“I don’t think so,” says Fjord slowly. “Look at the stains on this altar, it’s been used a number of times. Think we’d have heard about Uk’atoa bein’ released by now.” Fjord’s palm itches, whether for the altar or the orb he’s not sure. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what this pedestal does?”

The corner of Caleb’s mouth curls in a cautious smile. “Yeah, I have some ideas and I am curious, but I want to know what you _intend._ ” His eyes find Fjord’s, burning blue-gold. “What do you _want_ , Fjord?”

Fjord exhales slowly, water flowing out of his mouth. “Control,” he says. “I want to be the master of my own destiny.”

“And will _this –_ ” Caleb nods at the pedestal “– help with _that_?”

“Dunno,” says Fjord. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what a little drippy-drip might do?”

A canny gleam kindles in Caleb’s eyes and a hungry expression crosses his face, his gaze fixed on Fjord. “I’m always curious,” he says, low. “Can I count on you to return the favor?”

Fjord steps up to the pedestal across from Caleb, both hands gripping the carven stone. “Always,” he says, and means it.

Not breaking eye contact, Caleb takes the paring knife back out, slices it across his palm and through the bandages, and slams his hand down inside the altar.

The dull red light swells around his hand, more runes illuminating as Caleb’s bright crimson blood joins the dark blood of the hag in the bowl. Fjord cuts his own hand on his long knife, bright pain slicing through his skin, and watches as the blood flowing from the wound coalesces in the water and is drawn into the basin. More and more runes on the walls illuminate, turning the light in the chamber sanguine.

By now the basin is about two-thirds full, and Fjord starts to feel a little heady with adrenaline and blood loss. He looks up at Caleb, who grins back at Fjord, illuminated from below by the red light of the runes, face pale but eyes alight with a wild glitter. “This bowl needs a lot of blood,” says Fjord. “How far are you willin’ to take this?”

“How far are _you_?”

Fjord squeezes his hand, the blood oozing out between his fingers and flowing into the bowl. “I’m just tryin’ to provoke some chance here.”

The level in the bowl slowly rises as Caleb looks down at his own sliced hand, and Fjord wonders if some kind of magic pulls the blood out of him faster than it would flow on its own. “I am following your lead here,” says Caleb, low and rough, and the intensity of his gaze transfixes Fjord. “This is your quest. I have things that I need to do that are not here, and I am going to need help.” His voice drops on the last word, the burr in his tone sending shivers up Fjord’s spine.

“I understand,” says Fjord, and holds his still-bleeding hand out across the bowl.

Caleb stares at it for a long, long while and then brings his own two hands together, wringing them together to eke blood out, before clasping his cut palm solidly to Fjord’s.

The mingled blood from their hands dissipates and coalesces again in the bowl beneath, the thick red liquid rising, and Fjord tightens his grip on Caleb, who grips him back, the red gleam reflected in his eyes, hair floating around his head and the octopus curling a tentacle around his neck. “So do I.”


	9. Act IV, Scene 1

Caleb clasps Fjord’s hand in his own, the cut in his palm stinging as his blood drips into the altar below. The feeling of fire roaring in his veins is an old but familiar one, back from when magic was _exciting_ , when the hunger to learn consumed him day and night. With a steady half-smile, Fjord meets his eyes, dark hair half-falling in his eyes and the red glow of the runes illuminating his face.

As the blood reaches the rim of the bowl, the final runes light, and a deep subharmonic boom sounds distantly through the water. Caleb holds his breath, hand still firmly gripped in Fjord’s. “Was that it?” Fjord whispers. “Did we do it?”

“We did _something,_ ” says Caleb, looking around. The chamber seems unchanged.

But a minute passes, two, and nothing happens apart from the runes slowly, gradually dimming. “Maybe it’s outside,” says Fjord, finally letting go.

Caleb relinquishes his hand with a momentary flicker of regret, oddly dissatisfied at the lack of results. What a let-down, after all of that. “Maybe.”

They make their way back through the tunnels, avoiding the seaweed. As they come out onto the open ocean floor, Fjord turns his head up towards the surface of the water, brow furrowed. “Sun’s risin’,” he says, and Caleb realizes the water above them is tinted midnight instead of inky black.

The graveyard of sunken vessels surrounds them, masts rising like denuded trees, and the pieces click together one by one in Caleb’s mind. “Fjord…” he says slowly, “ do you know _why_ this region is so dangerous to ships?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Fjord says, “Lot of unpredictable storms here, even when it ain’t storm season. And you know, monsters an’ all that, but mostly storms…” He trails off, meeting Caleb’s eyes. “Storms that happen for no reason. Seemingly. Out of nowhere.”

For the first time in hours, Caleb’s chest feels heavy and airless. “Almost as if _summoned._ ”

Horror dawns on Fjord’s face. “Yeah.”

“We need to get back, fast.” Caleb digs in his spell pouch, careful not to damage the delicate little moth’s cocoon. “Fjord, do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” says Fjord immediately, “but why –”

Crushing the papery white cocoon in his hand, Caleb smacks the fragments onto Fjord’s chest, focusing his mind on the form of a dolphin and letting power flow through him. Fjord’s body lengthens, thickening with muscle, his legs fusing together and arms shortening and broadening into fins. His snout elongates, filled with pointed teeth, and Fjord tries to speak to Caleb, but instead a series of clicks and squeaks come of the dark grey-green dolphin, a scar down one side of its face just like Fjord’s.

Caleb climbs onto his back, straddling Fjord and hanging onto his fin, Fjord flexing his new muscles under him. “Up to the surface,” says Caleb, making sure Frumpkin is wrapped firmly around his neck. “Fast as you can. Ja?”

The words barely leave his mouth before Fjord darts off, shooting through the water.

Fingers knotted tightly together around Fjord’s fin, Caleb hangs tight, gripping with his thighs. The water rushes past them with enough force it threatens to dislodge him, more and more light gradually seeping around them until the water becomes deep blue-gray and they burst up through the surface to rolling waves –

Caleb gasps, thick rain plastering his already-wet hair and clothes to his face. He looks in the direction of where the _Tide’s Breath_ and _Squall-Eater_ were and is relieved to see two patches of off-white sails in the distance. Heavy gray clouds rapidly build and roil above them, deepening to purple in the heart of the storm. “That way!” yells Caleb over the rain and the wind. He snaps his fingers to send Frumpkin back to the Feywild, to be retrieved later when he can make him back into a cat.

Snorting mist out of his blowhole, Fjord turns and swims that direction, fighting the swells. Caleb is absurdly thankful that his water-breathing still lasts, with the waves and the rain. They chase the ships, the storm on their heels, and Caleb isn’t sure whether his heart pounds with fear for the destruction of the _Tide’s Breath,_ or awe at the power of the storm he and Fjord summoned.

With the wind in their sails and a head start, the two ships are faster than Fjord, and they disappear over the horizon. Fjord slows his pace, cutting through the glass-green waves; they’re on the fringes of the storm now, and the swells are lower, the rain steady but gentle. “How are you doing, are you all right?” says Caleb, patting Fjord’s leathery hide.

Fjord whistles cheerfully underneath him, which Caleb imagines is a positive statement. “Well, at least we did not kill everyone,” sighs Caleb. “Onwards.”

They continue in the direction of the ships, Caleb firmly trying not to think about what happens if they never regain sight of them. Gradually they pass out of the range of the storm, the sky still overcast but with the lemon glow of a rising sun to their left. Good to have directions, at least, thinks Caleb. And then they crest a swell, waves splashing Caleb in the face as Fjord arcs through it, and when he can see again he catches a glimpse of white sails ahead of them.

“There they are!” Caleb shouts, relieved, and Fjord swims forward with renewed energy. Just in time, too, because as they draw near the two ships, Caleb can feel his hold on the polymorph spell just beginning to slip. The _Tide’s Breath_ and the _Squall-Eater_ are anchored within gangplank distance of each other, a board thrown across between the two decks, and from this vantage point in the waves their hulls loom large and imposing over Caleb. With a tired sigh Caleb releases the spell on Fjord, his form turning back to half-orc, and Caleb lets go of him, drifting in the water. “Now what?” he says, eyeing the portholes and slats towering above them. “Do we climb up?”

“HEY!” bellows Fjord, treading water. “MAN OVERBOARD!” He glances over as Caleb swims up to the side of the ship, hoping to hang onto it for support. “Careful there, the barnacles’ll cut you to ribbons.”

Caleb regards the hull of the ship with newfound suspicion. “Ah.” Waves keep lapping into his mouth, filling it with salt.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” Fjord roars up at the _Tide’s Breath._ “Throw a ladder down!”

Treading water, Caleb stares up at the railing, waiting for the large figure of Ingvas to appear and roll down a ladder. He doesn’t, but after a few minutes, a knotted rope tumbles over the side. “Finally,” Fjord mutters. “What’s taken’ them so damn long, discipline on this ship is goin’ to the fuckin’ dogs –”

Caleb climbs up the rope, finding his footing on each knot, the rough hemp scraping his palms, water dripping off of his sodden clothes. As he reaches the rail, big hands reach down to help him up, gripping the scruff of his shirt. “Thank you,” says Caleb, gaining his footing, and then looks up and realizes it wasn’t Ingvas who helped him up, but a female ogre from Avantika’s crew.

“Wh–” says Caleb and a meaty palm slaps over his mouth, stinking of sweat, and the ogre grabs him and swings him around in a bear hug and there’s _blood_ on the deck, there’s bodies on the deck, and Caleb sinks his teeth into her hand so hard he tastes copper, and she grunts but doesn’t drop him.

Ingvas lies feet away, eyes half-closed and throat cut open, a pool of red surrounding him and soaking into his blond locks. Most of the other bodies are Vandran’s crew, the few left alive kneeling on the deck with their hands behind their heads – the cat-eyed master gunner, the halfing ship’s surgeon – and Avantika’s crew stand with weapons drawn and dripping blood, including Molly and Yasha. Caleb tries to choke out a warning to Fjord but the hand muffles his voice –

Fjord climbs over the rail to be met by the swords of two of Avantika’s crew. He pales, hand going to his knife but not daring to grasp it, and his panicked gaze flicks from Caleb to where Avantika stands on the quarter deck, one hand not only grasping Vandran by the front of his shirt but lifting him in the air, and her eyes as golden and slit-pupiled as the Uk’atoa orb. She holds a strange sword at her side, broad and with a curved blade that drips water, barnacles and algae crusting it near the hilt. Renewed terror twists Vandran’s face as he shouts, “Fjord –”

Avantika slits his throat.

Blood sprays, Vandran gurgling helplessly as Avantika drops him like a sack of potatoes. “NO!” roars Fjord, lunging past the crew and drawing his own knife, straight at her. But Yasha steps in between, catches his upraised arm, and with the other drives her sword straight into Fjord’s abdomen.

His desperate cry smothered, Caleb struggles fruitlessly, trying to kick the solid brick wall of the ogre holding him. “Why?” gasps Fjord, hanging onto Yasha to keep standing, sweat beading on his forehead.

A single tear rolls through the gore spattered on her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Caleb can’t talk to cast a spell and he can’t reach his spell pouch and he can’t do _anything_ while Fjord slides off Yasha’s sword and crumples to the deck, bleeding, and Caleb screams into the hand over his mouth as some forgotten shard of residuum under his skin flares to life, igniting his veins. All he has to do is _will_ it and a fireball screams through the air, straight at Avantika.

But she swipes her bloody hand through the air and ocean water surges up and over the deck, dousing Caleb’s fireball in an explosion of steam. Cold metal wraps around Caleb’s neck, and color bleeds out of the air and his hands go numb at the touch of lead, all his magic draining away. “No,” gasps Caleb against the chain pulled tightly to his throat, clawing at the large arm of the ogre holding him. She lifts him, Caleb’s feet dangling above the bloody boards of the deck, and Caleb chokes, black spots swimming in his vision.

Avantika approaches and looks Caleb over, the hardness of her gaze belied only by the faint trembling of her hand. For a brief, brief second, Caleb thinks he sees pain and regret behind her golden eyes, and then flames rise up inside him and he screams again, hoarse with anger and pain.

The trembling of her hand steadies, disappears. “Take him below,” says Avantika. “Lock him in the brig.”

\--

They clasp lead around Caleb’s neck and wrists again and throw him in one of the four iron-barred cells below the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ and leave him there, lit only by the chinks of daylight coming through gaps in the boards above, and Caleb shouts curses at them and kicks impotently at the bars and tries to will fire into existence again so hard he ends up lying on the floor, gasping and with tears in his eyes, but not even a wisp of smoke lights the straw he sprawls in. Gradually Caleb comes to stillness, trying to assess his chances of survival. Ships always need a mage. He’s too valuable to kill. Maybe they will sell him off to another, less murderous ship.

But it’s not _himself_ Caleb howls silently for, for the first time in years, and Caleb lies in the dirty, damp straw, his hands bound behind his back, and stares at the tarred floorboards below him with a tear dangling from the edge of his nose as his brain spins in useless, panicked circles. He can’t think of where to go from here. He can’t think of where to go next. He can’t think. He can’t think. He can’t think –

The hatch creaks open, sunlight flooding in, and booted footsteps come heavily down the stairs. Caleb scrambles to sit up as Yasha descends into the brig, Fjord flung over her shoulder. As she unlocks the cell next to Caleb and sets Fjord down within, his head lolling, Caleb rises to his knees, heart pounding unsteadily. Surely she wouldn’t bother, she would just throw him overboard, unless – “He’s alive?” gasps Caleb.

“Yeah.” Yasha kneels over Fjord, rolling him onto his back, and places one pale hand over the bloody wound in his stomach.

“Why?” growls Caleb, echoing Fjord’s plea earlier. “Why did you do it, Yasha, _why_?”

She looks down at Fjord sadly, a soft light flaring around her hand. The wound closes slightly, blood no longer flowing freely. “Someday I will tell you,” she says softly. “Maybe you will understand.”

“No, I don’t think I _will_ ,” Caleb snarls, he doesn’t _want_ to understand, he wants to be angry, he wants to set this entire damn ship on fire –

Yasha rises to her feet, brushing straw off her knees, and locks the door to Fjord’s cell. As she leaves, Caleb watches, not daring to turn his back on her, but the second the hatch door shuts behind her he drops back down, pressing himself into the bars between himself and Fjord. “ _Fjord_ ,” he says, watching desperately for any sign of life. His face does not move, eyes closed, mouth open slightly, the front of his clothes dark and slick with blood. But the skin of his throat flutters faintly with a visible pulse.

Caleb spends a long time there, longer than he’d like to admit, watching Fjord. For all the time he spent learning how to kill others, he never studied how to do it by the sword. He doesn’t know what sort of blow leaves a man alive but unconscious. He doesn’t know how quickly or slowly someone might succumb to such a wound. He doesn’t know at what point fever sets in, raging through the bloodstream.

He knows a hundred spells that can kill a man, but not one that can save him.

At some point during the day – Caleb does not bother to keep track – two of Avantika’s crew come down, a ragged elf and a reasonably dirty human. They cuff Caleb’s hands in front of him instead of behind, so he can piss if he needs to, and leave him a hunk of bread and a half-full pail of water. As soon as they leave Caleb scrambles back up against the bars, the chains linking his wrists to each other and to his neck clinking as he tries to work his hands through and reach for Fjord. But he can’t make it, the chains pulling taught and his cuffs clinking against the bars as Caleb’s fingers strain inches from Fjord’s shoulder where his damp shirt clings to his green skin.

After several moments of futile attempts, Caleb leans back against the planks of the hull and sighs. The slice in his palm stings, and Caleb spends time untying the bandages around his arm and meticulously wrapping and retying them to cover the wound as well, each inch of fabric carefully placed. They never did search him, he realizes. He still has his spell pouch, and his amulet, and –

_His books._

Cold sweat breaks out over Caleb as he remembers where his books are, locked in the chest in Fjord’s quarters. They’ve surely been ransacked by now, grubby fingers smearing all over his pages, some illiterate brigand leering down at arcane equations he can’t possibly understand. Caleb’s stomach curls, nauseous. Without his books he is nothing, just a grubby hobo locked in a pirate’s brig on the whim of a mutinous madwoman…

Well. Technically it’s not mutiny, since Avantika was never under Vandran. Treason, maybe? Do pirates have treason? Caleb heard Fjord mention a code once or twice, but he doesn’t know if he meant an established pirate code or just his own personal ethics.

Hair and clothes crusty with drying seawater, Caleb looks over at Fjord. He lies motionless, salt dusting his eyelashes, moisture beading his forehead. “Fjord,” says Caleb hoarsely, without much hope. “Can you hear me?”

No response. The rise and fall of his chest with his breath is sharp, stilted.

The lead collar heavy around his neck, Caleb curls in around himself and resigns himself to wait.

\--

Caleb dozes in fits and starts through the night, the ship creaking and rocking around him. Close to three in the morning, he wakes with a start to Fjord murmuring in the cell beside him. “Fjord!” he says, scrambling back over to the bars. Barely any light filters down below decks and Caleb reaches for his spell pouch when the chains stop him short, jangling. He can just barely make out Fjord still lying where Yasha left him, another indistinct murmur escaping his lips. Working his hand through the bars, Caleb reaches for him again, and though he still can’t reach Fjord, he can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Swearing quietly under his breath, Caleb presses his forehead against the cold iron, staring down at the dark shape of Fjord lying in the straw. “Wake up,” he mutters to himself, ashamed of the childish words as soon as they leave his lips. It shouldn’t matter, Caleb reminds himself. He doesn’t need Fjord. He survived long enough without him, and he can survive this too.

He repeats the words to himself as the night wanes. Gradually, light begins to creep back in, first gray and then pink, and now Caleb can see Fjord. Sweat dampens his hair and shirt, his eyelids flicker restlessly, and the ashy tint of his skin curls Caleb’s stomach with worry. He could call for help, sure, but it’s just as likely that they’ll toss Fjord overboard to save the hassle as heal him.

More likely, maybe, thinks Caleb, remembering Ingvas bleeding out on the deck. The only healer Avantika has is Yasha, and…

Speak of the devil.

Yasha descends the stairs slowly, her brow furrowed as she looks over Caleb and Fjord. She carries another pail of water and what looks like another piece of bread; Caleb watches her from his seat at the back of the cell, head leaned against the wall and hands dangling off his knees. “Hello,” she says, and unlocks Caleb’s door to set down the food and water inside. “Oh. He doesn’t look good.”

And whose fault is that, Caleb thinks, glowering at her. She enters Fjord’s cell and kneels down by him again, once again laying a glowing white hand on his abdomen. When the glow fades, Fjord’s labored breathing seems eased slightly, his complexion faintly healthier. Sighing, Yasha sits back on her heels, circles under her eyes. “Where are we going?” asks Caleb.

“Darktow,” murmurs Yasha. “Should be there by tonight if the winds stay fair.”

“And then what?”

Yasha looks down at her hand, rubbing a bit of dried blood off her thumb.

“And _then_ what?” growls Caleb.

Rising to her feet, Yasha turns and leaves, and the trap door closing behind her leaves Caleb back in darkness.


	10. Act IV, Scene 2

A hand shakes Caleb’s shoulder, rousing him from uneasy slumber, and he jumps and tries to cast sparks before the cold lead reminds him he can’t. Yasha looms over him, dark dreadlocks swinging over her shoulders, and Caleb flinches back, heart hammering in his chest. “Shh,” says Yasha, holding a finger up to her lips, and reaches for Caleb’s neck.

Caleb scrambles back, pushing up against the wall as far away from her as possible. “No –”

Frowning, Yasha tilts her head. “I’m not going to – I’m going to get your collar,” she says quietly, and mimes pulling something away from her neck.

Chest rising and falling rapidly, Caleb regards her with suspicion. “Why?” he rasps.

Yasha blinks at him, bemused. “I’m helping you escape.”

This is a trap. This _has_ to be a trap. Caleb stares at her, manacled wrists raised defensively in front of his chest, waiting for the steel jaws to spring shut. “What do you mean?” he says at last, when Yasha does not say anything further.

“I mean, I’m helping you get off the ship.”

Caleb’s heart leaps a little despite himself and he glances back at Fjord, whose fever has only worsened. “And Fjord?”

“Yes, both of you.” Yasha glances around warily.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because – I will tell you when we are out of here, okay, just let us get out of here first.” Irritation colors her voice, and she bites her tattooed lip impatiently.

Each of Fjord’s breaths labor strained and painful. “Okay,” says Caleb.

Every warning bell in his head clangs as Yasha reaches for him again, looming over him in the small cell, but Caleb forces himself to stay still, breathing stilted through his nose. Her hands find the lock on the back of the collar, but instead of fitting a key to it, she bends the soft lead, and with a dull _snap_ the lock breaks. Caleb holds his breath as the heavy collar falls away, carefully not moving as Yasha does the same with the cuffs on his wrists.

“Okay,” says Yasha, and steps back, going to unlock Fjord’s cell. Scrambling to his feet, Caleb follows after her, rushing in as soon as the door is open and kneeling beside Fjord, grabbing his face. His rough skin, normally faintly cool to Caleb’s touch, burns with the infection raging within.

“Fjord,” says Caleb, shaking him. “Fjord, wake up. We are getting out of here. Come on.”

Fjord groans faintly but does not stir, cheeks damp with sweat.

Breathing hard against the rising panic in his chest, Caleb stares down at him. “Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Fine.” And heaving Fjord up into a sitting position, he gets an arm under his shoulders and tries to stand, bringing Fjord to his feet.

But Fjord is fourteen stone of dead weight and Caleb’s knees buckle and he stumbles back to the ground, Fjord’s arm hanging limply over his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, Caleb tries again to haul Fjord up with him, but he doesn’t have the strength to bear Fjord’s weight and staggers sideways into the doorframe of the cell, sliding back to the ground.

Yasha watches, standing a few feet back. “I can do that,” she says.

“No,” snarls Caleb under his breath, legs trembling as he tries to stand. “I got it,” and once again he falls back to the floor. Get up! his mind screams at him, get up get up get up –

“Here,” says Yasha gently, reaching out, and before Caleb can protest she takes Fjord from him and slings him over her shoulder, Fjord groaning, his arms and head dangling down her back. “Come on.”

Breathing hard and shaking, Caleb stares up at her. “All right.”

They sneak up the stairs onto the deck, Caleb following in Yasha’s shadow. When they emerge, he finds the _Tide’s Breath_ docked at Darktow, the _Squall-Eater_ at the next dock over. It is the dead of night, only a few torches lit on the dock. “What about the watch?” hisses Caleb, crouched behind the rail with Yasha and out of sight from the _Squall-Eater._

Yasha points at two limp bodies just visible in the shadows behind the mast, whether dead or unconscious Caleb doesn’t care. Dark blood still stains the deck of the ship. Inch by inch, he and Yasha make their way to the gangplank, and Caleb sighs with regret for Frumpkin, currently a very unwieldy octopus instead of something that could scout ahead and around. Raising her head, Yasha looks around, eyes glinting in the starlight, and sniffs the air. “Come on.”

They dart down the gangplank, Fjord bouncing limply against Yasha’s back, and sprint to the shadows of the nearest alleyway. Panting, Caleb looks back at the _Squall-Eater_ , but several moments pass and no pursuit with swords drawn comes after them. “Now where?” he asks Yasha.

She looks at him with faint panic. “I thought you would know where to go.”

“Oh, scheiβe,” mutters Caleb, looking around frantically. He doesn’t know Darktow, he doesn’t have any allies here, he doesn’t know who to turn to –

Glancing over at Fjord, Caleb sighs and steels himself to reach out to his only possible option. “Follow me,” he says to Yasha, and turns down the alley.

Once clear of the _Squall-Eater_ , they don’t need to sneak, and Caleb strides at a brisk clip through the midnight streets of Darktow, warm and humid with tropical damp. At this hour the only people out are beggars huddled in doorways or drunkards collapsed in gutters. “So,” pants Caleb, hurrying towards the main square. “Now are you going to explain?”

Yasha sighs, long and heavy. “I had a change of heart,” she says at last. “I don’t – I don’t think what Avantika did was right.”

“Then why did you stab Fjord?” demands Caleb.

“Avantika thought you were trying to kill us.” Yasha hefts Fjord up higher on her shoulder, and he groans faintly. “She said you betrayed us by going down before her, you broke the deal. And she thinks you summoned the storm to sink the _Squall-Eater._ ”

“That explains her, that doesn’t explain _you._ ”

“I’m – I – I had to protect Avantika.” Frustration tightens Yasha’s voice, although Caleb senses it’s not directed at him. “But I feel bad. I feel bad about both of you. You don’t deserve it.”

“If Fjord dies,” Caleb snarls, sparks warming his fingers, “I promise you, there will not even be _ashes_ left to mark where you stood…”

Yasha looks at him sadly. “I know.”

Walking so fast he verges on a trot, Caleb leads Yasha through the streets to Oppan’s doorstep, stopping outside the faded blue door. “Oppan,” he whispers into his coiled wire. “This is Caleb Widogast, I need your help, please come outside. As a man of caliber.”

“Oh,” says Yasha, looking around. “I know this street.”

“Ja, this is where we first saw each other, I remember,” says Caleb. “You were with Avantika then.”

Yasha shifts her weight uncomfortably. “I owe her a debt.”

Before Caleb can ask what she means, a hastily-robed Oppan opens the door, his gray-streaked hair falling down around his shoulders. “What – oh,” he says, eyes going wide at the unconscious half-orc slung over the barbarian woman’s shoulder. “I am not a healer – or a necromancer…”

“You are the only person in this town who I can trust right now,” pleads Caleb, low and urgent. “Please, just give us safe haven.”

With an anxious glance around, Oppan says, “All right, come in, come in,” and steps back from the doorway. Caleb hurries inside, Yasha ducking her head slightly to pass under the doorway. “Up, this way,” says Oppan, and he leads them up the stairs to another door in the hallway, which opens onto a small, dark room with a bed built into the wall. “Put him here.”

As Yasha sets Fjord down on the bed, Oppan lights an oil lamp on the side table with a snap of his fingers. In the yellow light Fjord’s skin glistens sallow green, his lips dry and cracked, dark hair stringy with sweat. “We need a healer,” says Caleb, stripping open Fjord’s leather jerkin, his body as hot as live coals. “An apothecary, an herbalist, anyone –”

Caleb yanks open Fjord’s shirt, baring the wound, and his stomach curls in fear. The wound has sealed shut, swollen angry red through the yellow-green tint of Fjord’s front and stomach, and dark striations run through the flesh around it. Over Caleb’s shoulder, Oppan hisses through his teeth. “I’ll send a message,” he says, and leaves the room.

“What do we do?” says Yasha, hovering.

“I don’t know!” Caleb stares down in frustration at the infected wound, thoughts spinning in frantic circles. Fjord is hot, so hot to touch, that can’t be good – “Maybe – maybe water, if there is a way to keep him cool –”

Yasha looks around the little wooden room helplessly. “Where do I get water?”

“ _I don’t know!_ ”

Fumbling at her belt, Yasha pulls out her waterskin and hands it to Caleb. Taking it, Caleb uncorks the skin and drips water into Fjord’s mouth, feeling stupid and clumsy. To his relief, Fjord’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“You, um… you could do like that, with the cloth,” says Yasha, miming patting Fjord’s forehead. A good idea, thinks Caleb, and pulls the scarf from his neck. Wetting one end of it, he presses it to Fjord’s temples and cheeks, trying to bring some coolness to his flushed skin.

A sudden memory surfaces, fuzzy with time and illness – Caleb, young, lying in bed and burning with fever as his mother bends over him, laying a cool compress on his forehead. _Da, da, meiner Kleinen_ , she says, gentle and singsong. _Du schaffts das, es wird bald vorbei…_

Caleb’s fingers tighten on the damp scarf, water dripping onto Fjord’s skin.

“Hey,” says a voice at the door, and Caleb and Yasha jump and turn. “You need water?”

The goblin, Nott, stands in the doorway, porcelain mask covering her mouth and nose and a metal pail of water in her arms. “I got this from the well,” she says, holding the pail up.

“Oh,” says Caleb. “Ah. Yes, thank you very much, please bring it here.”

With a nervous glance at Yasha, Nott edges into the room, the water in the bucket sloshing. “What’s wrong with _him_?” she says, yellow eyes roving over Fjord.

“Fever,” mutters Caleb, taking the bucket and re-wetting the scarf. Though not entirely sure how much it’s helping, he continues to dab at Fjord’s face and neck, ignoring Nott watching and Yasha drawing back into the corner.

A few minutes later, Oppan returns, accompanied by a woman whose henna-blackened hair falls long and straight around her face, a knot of it piled on top of her head and held in place with bone pins, her kohl-lined eyes sharp and her lips thin. Hedge witch, thinks Caleb derisively, and then tries to squash down that uncharitable thought. “In here,” says Oppan.

“Out of the way,” snaps the witch, pushing up beside Caleb to sit on the bed, and unslinging her leather bag from her shoulder, her many necklaces and bracelets jangling against each other. She pulls out bottles of tinctures, folded linen, a long, sharp knife with a wicked point. “I need someone with a steady hand and a strong stomach. Everyone else, out of the room.” Her voice grates like two stones scraping over each other.

Caleb raises an eyebrow at Oppan.

“This is Afelia, she is very good at what she does and I trust her,” says Oppan, already withdrawing. “Nott, come on.”

Yasha glances questioningly at Caleb. “Go,” murmurs Caleb, and she looks unmistakably relieved. “I’ll stay.”

With a nod, she leaves, the door closing behind her.

“Bring me that oil lamp,” orders Afelia, tearing Fjord’s shirt to further bare the wound. Caleb obeys, fetching it and holding it out to her. Taking the long knife, she holds it above the glass lamp chimney, yellow light running across the blade as she turns it from side to side.

Before he can stop himself, Caleb says, “You know, I could do that faster.”

Afelia’s plucked-thin eyebrows raise. “Do what?”

Pulling up a chair, Caleb sits and offers fire in the palm of his hand, flickering brightly. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” mutters Afelia, and holds the knife blade in the flame. “What are you, then? Wizard? Sorceror? Disgraced holy man?”

“Try disgraced wizard,” mutters Caleb. “What about you? Hedge witch or just an herbalist with good publicity?”

She cocks her head, the light glinting dangerously off the knife. “Careful, wizard,” Afelia murmurs. “I’m here as a favor to Oppan, not to you.”

Caleb does not have the heart in him to feign politeness. “Sorry,” he bites off. “Guess I’m just a little bit stressed.”

“Hm.” Lips pursed, Afelia tests the heated blade on her finger, turns, and slices twice through the worst of the taut swelling on Fjord’s abdomen in a neat X.

The smell of infection fills the room and Caleb stifles a gag. With a pad of folded linen, Afelia mops up the yellow-red fluid trickling from the incisions she made. “Come here,” she says, beckoning Caleb, and he warily scoots his chair closer. “Here,” and Afelia hands him the linen. “Keep mopping that up.”

Trying not to be obvious about breathing through his mouth, Caleb holds the cloth to Fjord’s side, watching the swelling slowly decrease as liquid oozes out. On the other side of the wound, Afelia cuts another X in, just deep enough to break the skin and puncture the swelling. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you, wizard?” she says.

No, actually, I hate myself, thinks Caleb. “I would not say that.”

Afelia takes a second linen pad and soaks up the pus and blood leaking from the second incision. “Well, you don’t think very much of _me._ ”

Sighing, Caleb checks his own linen for a clean spot and reapplies it. Fjord lies limp, eyes wandering under his eyelids, his breath rising faintly under Caleb’s hand. Not knowing what he can say in response, Caleb stays quiet.

When they’ve drained as much of the swelling as possible, Afelia takes the bucket and pours water into a wooden basin she brought with her, crumbling dried herbs into it. Faint notes of mint and basil reaches Caleb’s nostrils, cutting through the heavy smell of infection. Wetting another folded pad of linen in the basin, Afelia carefully cleans off the two incisions and the areas around them. Her hands are long and gaunt like her face, dots and small celestial symbols inked around her nailbeds and along the tops of her fingers. Once finished, she gathers all the used linen, dumps it in the basin, and hands it to Caleb. “Put this somewhere.”

Caleb sets it down on the floor and sits back up as Afelia draws more things out of her bag – incense, a stick of charcoal, a leather pouch full of something that clicks and rolls around inside like pebbles. Setting the incense in a clay holder, she hands it out towards Caleb. “Do you mind?”

Snapping his fingers, he lights the incense with a spark. “Thank you,” says Afelia, and waves the incense around in the air, creating lazy spirals of smoke above Fjord, while muttering a long string of mystical-sounding syllables. Apparently satisfied, she sets the incense down beside her and begins to draw on Fjord’s stomach with the charcoal, creating symbols that ring the infected wound.

“Er,” says Caleb. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing out the infection,” says Afelia, brow furrowed with concentration. Her symbols done, she opens the leather pouch and pulls out a handful of moonstones, each polished and about the size of a small pebble. She sets them down carefully between the symbols, picks up the incense, and begins waving and chanting again.

Leaning back in his chair, Caleb covers his mouth with his hand and begins to very, very quietly cast _Detect Magic –_ or starts to, and then can’t quite think of the words, and goes to reach for his spell book before he remembers – ah. It’s not there. Silently smoldering, he folds his arms over his chest and watches as Afelia completes her little ritual, chanting low and singsong in her hoarse voice. Eventually, she falls quiet, the last curls of incense smoke drifting in the still room, and Caleb belatedly realizes how late – or early – in the night it must be.

“There,” says Afelia, satisfied, and blows out the incense. “Now his blood has been cleansed of the sickness.” She begins gathering up the moonstones and placing them back in her pouch.

Caleb is unable to resist saying, “How do you know?”

“How do you know when your spells work, wizard?” she counters. “So sure of yourselves, aren’t you, in your ivory towers with all your books and sigils and long robes. But there are more ancient, deeper arts than yours.” She looks Caleb straight in the eyes. “Who did you study under, some great mage? Scions of the Cerberus Assembly, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Caleb murmurs.

“Very learned men, I’m sure. But I learned my craft from my grandmother, and she from hers, and so it has been for generations upon generations of women in my family.” Tapping the ash off the incense holder, Afelia returns it to her satchel along with the moonstone pouch. “And so it will be.”

Maybe Caleb is imagining it, but Fjord does seem to be breathing a little easier. Certainly the swelling around the wound has receded. “Well, ah,” he says. “Thank you.”

Together they bandage the incisions, Caleb helping lift Fjord slightly so Afelia can wind linen around his torso. Afelia once more delves into her satchel and pulls out a cup, and a small vial of a brownish-yellow liquid. Filling the cup with water from the pail, she unstoppers the vial and very precisely lets three drops fall into the cup. “Give him this,” she says, handing the cup to Caleb. Her fingers brush the back of Caleb’s hand and a sudden uncomfortable spark like static electricity snaps him. “I will leave this tincture here with you as well. Three drops in his water or ale, once in the morning, once in the evening, every day for a week. Change the bandages once a day at least.”

“Aye,” says Caleb, committing the instructions to memory.

“And you can tell Oppan my favor to him is returned.” Sweeping up her satchel, Afelia rises to her feet and exits the room.

Sighing, Caleb takes the cup and scoots the chair up closer to Fjord’s head. With one hand he carefully cradles and lifts the back of Fjord’s head and brings the cup to his lips with the other, slowly trickling in liquid, making sure Fjord swallows. Once the cup is empty, Caleb lowers Fjord’s head back to the pillow, his fingers wet with the sweat from Fjord’s hair.

Fjord’s eyelashes are damp too, and they look very long and dark against the sallow green of his cheeks. Propping his chin on his interlaced fingers, Caleb contemplates Fjord’s broad cheekbones and square jawline, the little pinch between his dark eyebrows, the juxtaposition between half-orc bone and muscle and the helplessness of his limp hands and bared throat. A strange protectiveness wells up in Caleb, so fierce it feels like anger. If he were better, Caleb thinks, more capable, a better wizard, a stronger man, this would not have happened. He _should_ be better. He _should_ be stronger.

Muttering curses under his breath, Caleb scrubs his thumb knuckles over his forehead, tired eyes squinched shut. There is no window in this little wooden room, the air close with the heat radiating off Fjord, and sleep weighs heavy on Caleb’s eyelids. He needs fresh air, then maybe he will think a little clearer. Caleb splashes a little water from the pail on his face and gets to his feet, leaving the room.

The narrow hallway has one window on the front wall, over looking the street. Caleb crosses to it and unlatches the frame, swinging the window open with a faint squeaking of metal. The air is a little cooler now, the heavy stillness that only comes just before dawn blanketing Darktow. Rubbing at his face again, Caleb rakes a hand through his hair, finally dislodging the remnants of his ponytail. The loss of his books nags at him, eating away at the back of his brain, he can’t even turn Frumpkin back into a cat without them, at least he still has his spell pouch –

_His spell pouch._

Fumbling to untie it, Caleb digs among the jumbled components until his fingers find a walnut-sized round crystal, wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Slowly, Caleb brings the crystal out into the night, unwinding the rag from around it to reveal the golden eye-shaped orb.

He stares at it for a long time, secretly hoping to feel the same magnetic pull that calls Fjord to it, to know what to do, to be chosen for dreams of power. But it sits in his hand, inert, only faintly glowing.

Sighing, Caleb rewraps the crystal in its rag and tucks it back into the pouch, nestling it among clumps of phosphorus and feathers and bottles of molasses and oil. He thinks about Avantika’s yellow eyes, and the blood on her sword, and shudders. Maybe better to keep this hidden for a little while.

Caleb closes the window and trudges back to Fjord’s room, where he lies unmoving and unchanged. There’s a folded blanket at the foot of the bed, under his boots, and Caleb eases it out. Sitting down in the chair, Caleb kicks his own boots off, props his feet up on the bed, drapes the blanket over himself, and lets his head nod as he drops off into sleep.

Some time later he wakes with a start to Oppan entering the room, a cup of tea in hand. “Sorry,” says Oppan, as Caleb blearily stretches and rubs at his face. His neck hurts abominably. “Just thought I would bring you this. How is he?”

“Thank you,” says Caleb hoarsely, and accepts the cup of tea. It is hot, and herbal, and the first sip helps chase away some of the fog in his head. “He is, ah…” Fjord looks unchanged, his bandages slightly stained. “He will pull through. I hope.”

Oppan sighs, folding his arms as he regards Fjord. “He’s Captain Vandran’s quartermaster, isn’t he? What happened? Where’s Vandran?”

Caleb’s stomach sinks. “I am very sorry to have to tell you this,” he says quietly, “but Vandran is dead.”

Beside him, Oppan goes very still. Caleb counts out thirty seconds, forty-five seconds, sixty, seventy-five. “Ah,” says Oppan, his gaze glassy and flat.

“I am sorry,” says Caleb again, because it’s all he knows what to say.

Oppan lets out a long, slow, heavy breath. “What happened?”

Briefly, Caleb recounts the exploration of the Diver’s Grave and Avantika’s attack, debating whether to include details on the orb and at the last minute leaving them out. He finishes with Yasha breaking him and Fjord out of the brig and their midnight trek to Oppan’s. After he concludes, Oppan sighs heavily, rubbing at his face; he looks haggard. “So anyway, thank you,” says Caleb awkwardly. “For taking us in. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, well, men like us have to stick together,” says Oppan, and clears his throat savagely, his eyes faintly-red rimmed. But he looks down at Caleb with a hint of a wry smile and a cocked eyebrow. “It’s not an easy world out there.”

“No,” murmurs Caleb, watching Fjord’s chest rise and fall under the bandages. “No, it is not.”

\--

The water is dark, but this time with blood. _CONSUME,_ commands the eye, bright as the sun, illuminating the water around it scarlet.

_CONSUME._

_CONSUME._

Fjord opens his mouth to protest but he has no air, a weight on his chest flattening his lungs. “I,” he gasps, and pants, and struggles to breathe. He hurts inside, a burning pain in his core. “I, I, I can’t –”

_GROW._

“I _can’t –_ ”

The eye closes, leaving Fjord in darkness and in pain, and he sinks down, down, down into the depths.

\--

With Yasha’s help, Caleb changes the dressings on Fjord’s wound, and carefully measures three more drops of the tincture into a cup of weak ale and ministers it to him. “Go,” says Yasha. “Get some rest. I’ll watch him.”

Caleb lingers, unwilling to leave Fjord’s side. “You sure you won’t stab him again?” He’s not entirely sure if he means it as sarcasm or not.

“No, I…” Seated in the chair, Yasha sighs, her elbows on her knees. “I don’t want him dead. I don’t want any of you dead. I never did. I just had to do what Avantika wanted me to do.”

Her bowed shoulders ripple with muscle, dark hair falling in gnarled braids and cords along her back, fading to white at the ends. “Why?” says Caleb.

“She… I… I owe her a debt,” says Yasha, low and even. “I was in a circus, with Molly, we were traveling together. Then there was, uh, an incident at a town we had stopped at, one of our performers went sort of…” Her voice trails off as Yasha frowns, apparently searching for the right word. “He sort of went… evil?”

“Oh,” says Caleb. “Evil like…” and he mimes stabbing multiple people.

“Well, he was a giant frog, so it was more like,” and Yasha puffs out her cheeks and holds her arms out from her sides, glowering. “Anyway, he killed a lot of people, and the town was not happy about it, so they arrested a lot of us. Molly and I were going to spend time in prison, but then Avantika came by and paid off our sentence. She wanted us on our crew.”

Caleb frowns at this act of altruism. “You two specifically? Why?”

“I don’t know.” Yasha looks up at him, brow furrowed in bemusement. “I never really asked. I think she just thought we were special.”

“Perhaps you satisfied her penchant for the arcane and the powerful,” murmurs Caleb. “But that was the deal, huh? She sprung you out of prison and you owed her your life?”

“The rest of the time I would have spent in jail, yeah.”

“And that’s all?”

Blinking in confusion, Yasha says, “What else would there be?”

“Well, you know, on the ship, you implied… oh, I don’t know, you made it sound like some great secret.” Caleb is tired. He’s so tired. “You could have just said ‘Avantika bought us out of jail and now we owe her instead.’”

Yasha looks down at her hands. “There is, um, there is more than that,” and she licks her lips nervously. “I don’t know if I want to talk about it. But she and I, well. You know. You know.”

Something about her bowed shoulders, her hooded eyes, and the quiet shame in her voice pings little warning bells in Caleb’s head. “Was it your choice?” he asks quietly.

Bright, too bright with moisture, Yasha’s eyes flash up to his. “I don’t know.”

Schieβe. Caleb sighs, rubbing at his face, stubble scratching his palm. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“She is a very charismatic person,” offers Yasha guiltily.

“Ja.” He should offer something, commiseration, or sympathy, or something, but Caleb can’t come up with the right words. “Well, you know. It happens to all of us.”

“Does it?”

It happened to me, Caleb wants to say, but he can’t quite get that out either. He shrugs instead.

A few moments of silence pass, Caleb’s arms folded over his chest as he watches Fjord. “Go,” says Yasha quietly. “I will keep watch.” Her greatsword leans against the chair, crossguard and pommel gleaming dully silver.

“Okay,” says Caleb. “Okay.”

He leaves but doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, tired enough to sleep but too on edge to relax. Caleb ends up poking around in Oppan’s study when he realizes it’s empty, Oppan out on some sort of errand. Among the various flasks and crystals and tarnished amulets, a humanoid skull sits on top of a pile of books, clean but weathered. Caleb picks it up, looking into the empty sockets. “Oh, so many secrets, huh, Yorick?” he says. The orb in his spell pouch. The skeletons in his closet. The fierce surge of protection in his belly whenever he looks at Fjord.

Caleb tilts the skull in his hands, making the jaw clack with his thumb. “ ‘Maybe you should tear it off your chest,’ ” he says, in a harsh, grating voice.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Caleb sighs.

The skull regards him blankly, teeth yellowed. “ ‘It’s driving you crazy.’ ”

“Maybe not yet.” He has a hold on it. It’s fine.

“ ‘It’s probably a good idea.’ ”

Caleb points at the skull. “You’re funny,” he says, and puts the skull back on top of the books. He peruses the titles themselves; _Xanathar’s Guide to Everything_ , says one, and _Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes_ , says another. _Volo’s Guide to Monsters_ reads the third. The leather bindings are still vibrantly colored, though worn around the edges. Easing the _Tome of Foes_ out from the stack, Caleb curls up in the nearest chair and begins to read.

It’s a book he’s read before, many times, detailing the travels and dangers encountered by a Greyhawk mage. There is a familiar comfort to the slide of parchment under his fingers, the phrases he once studied so often inked on the pages, the full-page etchings of strange races and beasts that fascinated him as a teenager. He flips through idly, wondering if there is a mention of Uk’atoa among the pages of devils and demons and strange demented things and – ah. There it is. Leviathan.

Frowning, Caleb considers the accompanying engraving. It’s not quite the same beast painted on the temple wall – this one’s snout is distinctly dragonish, rather than blunt and ugly, and it only has two eyes – but clearly in the same family, at least.

Nagging worry for Fjord reasserts itself in Caleb’s chest, gnawing at his ribcage. Tucking the book under his arm, Caleb gets to his feet and returns to the little bedroom. Yasha sits sprawled in the chair, her head tilted back and a gentle snore emanating from her open mouth. On the bed, Fjord still lies unconscious, but his breathing sounds less strained, the muscles in his face more relaxed. Tiptoeing over as if his footfalls will puncture this new frail hope, Caleb lays the back of his fingers against Fjord’s cheek and forehead. Though still warmer than normal, his skin is a far cry from its former blazing heat, and Caleb’s shoulders slump in relief.

Caleb moves to the foot of the bed, easing Fjord’s feet aside so he has room to sit, and settles in to read.

\--

Fjord comes to bleary consciousness, his thoughts fuzzy, mouth dry. He _aches_ , not just in his midsection but all over, and a headache pounds at the front of his brain. “Wh…” says Fjord, fumbling at the sheets covering him, squinting at the wooden planks of the wall beside him “Where… where’m I…?”

“Ay, welcome back to the land of the living,” says a hoarse but pleased voice, and Fjord blinks, trying to focus. The figure of Caleb, sitting at the foot of his bed with his back to the wall and a book in his hand, eventually resolves. The smile on his face is neither sardonic nor bitter, just genuinely pleased, and Fjord’s heart does a funny little flop at that. “You gave us a good scare.”

“I was _stabbed_ ,” Fjord grumbles, pulling back the sheets to fumble at the bandages on his stomach. “What did – how? How did I get here? Where are we? What happened to the ship?”

Lowering the book with one finger marking his place, Caleb raises an eyebrow. “One question at a time,” he says. “We are in Darktow, in the home of the wizard Oppan, who was a colleague of Vandran’s. The _Tide’s Breath_ is safely anchored at the docks. Yasha brought us here, after letting us out of the brig.”

Fjord frowns, trying to process, each word tumbling like a small stone through his brain. “ _Yasha_?” he finally manages. “But she turned on us.”

With a shrug, Caleb says, “She feels bad about it.”

Sure there’s more to the story than that, Fjord squints suspiciously at Caleb. “How long’ve I been out?”

“It is the evening of the second day.”

Just hearing that makes Fjord exhausted, and he flops back against the thin pillow, limbs still fever-weak. “I’m thirsty,” he complains, petulant, for the sake of complaining.

Caleb’s smirk should annoy Fjord, but there’s a fond curl to it that Fjord’s never seen and he doesn’t know what to make of it with his aching head and the pain in his gut and he thinks he _likes_ it, and the lamplight stings his dry eyes and Fjord throws an arm over his face, hiding in the welcome dark. _Vandran’s dead_ , he thinks, _Him and Ingvas and Nahra and probably everyone else and –_ and he stops thinking that because it’s too much, right now, it’s just too much.

Caleb clears his throat, much closer now, and Fjord peeks from underneath his arm. The wizard stands over him, holding a ceramic mug of something. “Here,” says Caleb. “Drink this.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Fjord reaches for the mug, but his hand shakes so badly that liquid splashes over the rim. Caleb helps him steady it, bringing the mug to his lips, and Fjord obediently drinks. It’s ale inside, so weak it’s nearly water, but with a bitter herbal taste that makes him screw up his face. He downs the contents of the mug anyway, soothing his parched throat. “Thanks,” Fjord mutters.

Backing away slightly, Caleb looks down at Fjord with an unfathomable expression, something steady and intent shifting behind his gray-blue eyes. The oily light of the lamp shines on the ridge of his nose, the precise curve of his lower lip and the half-healed split there, and glints on his copper beard. His tousled hair falls half over his forehead, curling on his shoulders, and shadows pool in the lines of his throat and hollow of his clavicle. Fjord swallows hard, something twisting deep, deep inside him, farther than the sword reached, farther than any dreams of underwater eyes. “You’re welcome,” says Caleb quietly, and his hand moves towards Fjord’s shoulder an inch before falling back at his side. “Anytime.”


	11. Act IV, Scene 3

As Caleb climbs up the stairs to Oppan’s floor, his prize of bread and cheese from the market wrapped in brown paper and tucked firmly under one arm, he hears raised voices. Frowning, Caleb pauses halfway up, just as the door to Fjord’s room opens and he stumbles out, hanging onto the doorframe. “You _stabbed_ me!” he shouts back into the room.

“Only a little!” Yasha’s confused and indignant protest emanates from within. “And you’re fine now anyway!”

Fjord growls, leaning on the wall as he takes one extremely unsteady step forward and then another. “Where are you going?” asks Caleb, ascending the remaining steps.

“Back to my ship.” Fjord’s face tenses and his muscles shake with the effort of staying standing, and he manages another wobbly step.

One hand resting on the waxed wood of the banister, Caleb says, “Your ship?”

“I’m the quartermaster, captain’s dead, that makes me acting captain which means the _Tide’s Breath_ is my ship.” Fjord nearly keeps the tremor out of his voice, up until the last word. “I’m takin’ it back.”

“Maybe wait until you can stand up on your own, ja?”

Fjord snarls under his breath, legs trembling. Sweat drips down his forehead.

In the bedroom doorway, Yasha glances apologetically at Caleb. “Should I hold him down?” she asks quietly.

Caleb gestures no and carefully sets his bread and cheese down, watching as Fjord forces one more step. But his knees buckle and Caleb jumps forward, catching Fjord’s elbow. He can’t keep him upright but he can help break his fall, both of them ending up kneeling on the floor. “Fjord,” says Caleb quietly, beside him.

His fists clenched, head bowed, Fjord exhales rough and shaky. “I have to,” he says, voice low, and is Caleb imagining it or does his accent shift, just for a moment? “I have to go back, I have to make it right, I –”

Putting a hand on Fjord’s shoulder, Caleb says again, “ _Fjord._ ”

Under Caleb’s touch, tremors rock Fjord like a small earthquake. “I let him down,” he gasps. “I should have been there for my captain and I – I wasn’t, I failed him, I –” He slams his fist into the wall beside him, too weak to make any real impact.

“You tried –”

Fjord _roars_ , tendons in his neck straining and nubs of tusks bared as anger and grief pour out of him in a feral howl. Hand still on Fjord’s shoulder, Caleb remains kneeling and silent, memories of his own anguished howls from many years ago echoing in his head. There is nothing to be said, and so he says nothing.

Panting, Fjord falls quiet, black hair falling in his eyes. A faint streak of gray marks the hair at his temple that wasn’t there three days ago. “I will help you,” promises Caleb quietly. “You need your strength, and I need my books. But I will help you.”

Fjord shivers again, his back muscles twitching like a horse trying to shake off flies. “Do you mean that?” he says hoarsely, glancing at Caleb out of the corner of his eye.

Caleb holds up his bandaged hand. “We made a pact, didn’t we?”

A quiet huff that might almost be a chuckle escapes Fjord. “That we did.”

\--

“We gotta be fast about this,” Fjord tells Caleb and, begrudgingly, Yasha. Fitting the three of them comfortably in his little sick room takes some juggling; Fjord reclines at the head of the bed, while Yasha stands leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across her chest, and Caleb sits in the single chair with one leg crossed over the other, one finger thoughtfully resting on his upper lip. “Avantika’s not going to just hang around and wait for us to strike back.”

“Should we just kill her, then?” suggests Yasha.

“And what about when the rest of her crew turns on us?” Crossing one ankle over the other, Fjord regards Yasha. “What about that friend of yours, that Molly fellow? Think he’ll cross over to our side?”

With calm conviction, Yasha says, “If I ask him to, he will.”

Fjord frowns, running the numbers through his head. There’s the four of them, plus whoever on his crew is still alive. “I want you to know, just how much I hate that I have to ask this,” he says slowly, the anger that has been his constant companion for the last two days simmering just under the surface, “but how many of my crew did you kill?”

“Eight,” says Yasha quietly. “Eight or nine.”

Gods, that’s over half the crew. Fjord stares up at the ceiling, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady. “Okay,” he says. “That’s maybe nine, ten of us total. How many’s Avantika got on her crew?”

Yasha’s fingers tap one-by-one on her large bicep as she counts, eyes hooded. “Fourteen, without me and Molly.”

That’s too many. Fjord hisses through his teeth; even if the numbers were reversed he still wouldn’t feel comfortable leading a fight with those odds. They have one chance at this, and a victory that kills even more of his crew isn’t much of a victory at all. “Dammit,” he mutters. “Wonder if there’s any other crews out there with a grudge against her, maybe they’d be willin’ to help –”

“Who is this Plank King you have mentioned before?” cuts in Caleb, gaze flashing to Fjord.

Fjord sighs heavily. “Leader of the Revelry, and by extension all of Darktow. Revelry bein’ all of us who officially signed on as pirates,” he says, in response to Caleb’s raised eyebrows. “Not everyone who live in Darktow is a member of the Revelry, but enough of us are that the Plank King’s laws apply to all. Hell, Darktow has a mayor but he’s just a puppet of the Plank King.”

“Well, if he enforces the law, then surely a betrayal of this kind would be worth bringing to his attention, no?” 

It’s not an easy question to ask for Caleb, Fjord can tell from the wrinkle between his eyebrows and the tension in his jaw. Fjord rubs his jaw, growing stubble prickly under his hand, not finding the question easy to answer either. “In Darktow and the surrounding waters, double-crossin’ and betrayal are punishable by death –”

Fire snaps in Caleb’s eyes. “There you go, then –”

“– but this didn’t happen anywhere near Darktow. We weren’t in his jurisdiction. And it’s easy to lie about fights you don’t win.” Fjord holds Caleb’s gaze until he’s sure he’s understood. “We’re gonna need some kind of _proof._ Somethin’ more than just a fight between crews.”

Caleb grunts, rubbing at his mouth. “Maybe if we are very lucky, Avantika keeps a diary,” he says, dry as dust.

“She does,” says Yasha.

Fjord raises his eyebrows, turning back to her. “She what now?”

“She has a little leather book, maybe about this big,” and Yasha illustrates with her hands. “I’ve seen it, a couple of times, she writes in it before she goes to sleep.”

Trying to piece this together, Fjord frowns. The wooden headboard of the bed digs uncomfortably into his spine and he sits up straighter. “When have you seen that?”

Color faintly blooms on Yasha’s pearly cheeks, and she looks down, mouth twisting uncomfortably. “Ah,” says Caleb quietly. “When you were repaying your debt to her?”

Fjord’s missing something and he frowns, looking from one to the other. “What debt?”

“Yes,” says Yasha to Caleb, very quietly. Something dark and unreadable flickers on his face, sympathy creasing the skin around his eyes.

“Hang on, hang on, _what debt_?” says Fjord.

Yasha re-crosses her arms over her chest, drawing one leg up underneath her. “She got Molly and me out of prison, but now, you know, we owe her all that time instead.”

“Oh,” says Fjord. “Ah,” and then the meaning of Yasha’s blush and downcast gaze hits him. “ _Oh._ ”

“Did she send you on the _Tide’s Breath,_ or were you really trying to get away?” asks Caleb, arms folded on top of the chair back, brow furrowed.

“She sent me, but, ah, I was kind of hoping to get away too.”

Raking his hands through his hair, Fjord leans his elbows on his knees, half-healed stomach wound twinging painfully. “Can we steal this diary?” he says. “Where does she keep it?”

“Somewhere in her room, I’m not really sure.” Yasha grimaces apologetically. “I didn’t see her put it away.”

Caleb rubs at his face and groans, “Oh, if only I had my books, this would all be so much easier –”

From outside the door comes the quiet but distinct sound of a stifled sneeze, followed by an equally intelligible, “ _Shit._ ”

Fjord freezes, as do Caleb and Yasha. Putting a finger to his lips, Fjord gets to his feet as quietly as possible, bare feet padding on the wooden floor. “What was that about your books?” he says to Caleb, maybe a little too loudly.

“Hmm? Oh, just that I could really use them right about now…” Caleb’s gaze is fixed on the door, and he readies a hand, sparks dancing around his fingers. On the other side of the room, Yasha slowly reaches for the sword on her back, pulling away from the wall.

Reaching the bedroom door, Fjord pauses for a second, listening, and when he hears nothing, yanks the door open to reveal Oppan’s little goblin servant crouching outside, large ears pricked up attentively. “Ah!” she shrieks when the door opens, scuttling back. “I wasn’t listening! I wasn’t listening!”

“The hell you weren’t – go on, get out of here, scat,” says Fjord, urging her back with one foot. “Git!”

Getting up from his seat, Caleb says quietly, “Hey, hey, hey, it is all right,” and he walks over to join Fjord, crouching to be on eye level with the goblin. “Why were you listening in on us?”

The goblin’s yellow eyes dart nervously from Caleb to Fjord and back again over the creepy fuckin’ porcelain mask she wears, her clawed fingers tapping anxiously against each other. “I can help,” she says. “I’m very sneaky, I’m very good at getting into things and stealing them –”

“If you’re so sneaky how come we caught you snoopin’ outside our door?” demands Fjord.

Ears pinned back, the goblin narrows her eyes and hisses at him.

“Listen,” says Caleb gently, “I’m sure you are, but this is maybe a little big for you, hmm? This is not your fight.”

This small consideration towards this small green monster nags at Fjord in a way he doesn’t want to examine, and he glowers down at her. “Go on now, get out of here,” he says, harsher than he maybe means to. Caleb shoots a disapproving glance at him.

Shoulders hunched, the goblin creeps back towards the staircase. Fjord waits until she descends, and even then he can just see the top of her head and points of her ears peeking up above the edge of the floor. “I can still see you!” he calls. With a faint hiss, the goblin disappears completely.

Grumbling to himself, Fjord steps back into the room, closing the door behind him. Caleb has thrown himself back in the chair, heels now propped on the edge of the bed. “Where’d you say your books are again?” Fjord asks.

Caleb sighs, temple propped against his fist. “In a locked chest, in your quarters on the ship,” he says tiredly. “The _Tide’s Breath._ ”

That brings Fjord up short as he remembers locking the books in there, so confident in his ability to keep Caleb’s most treasured possessions out of harm’s way. “Ah,” he says. “That sure is a pickle.”

“If they’re even still in there,” says Caleb, even more weary. “I am sure the ship has been thoroughly ransacked,” and he raises his eyebrows over at Yasha.

“Actually, I don’t know.” With an apologetic glance at Fjord, she adds, “Avantika wasn’t really interested in searching the ship once she’d found the orb.”

Fjord is still trying to piece together memories of the past few days, hazy with pain and illness, but the image of Vandran, fear etched on his face a second before Avantika’s blade sliced through his throat, his blood glittering like rubies in the sunlight, stays burned in his brain with sadistic clarity. He realizes he’s holding his breath, fists clenched, and forces himself to exhale slowly and calmly. “Right.”

“I don’t think we should stay here much longer,” says Caleb, continuing a train of thought Fjord wasn’t on. “Oppan has been more than hospitable, but I do not want to overstay our welcome.”

“There’s always rooms at the Bloated Cup.” Fjord leans back against the wooden door, considering next steps. “What are our liabilities?”

Caleb tips his head back over the top of the chair, extenuating the sharp lines of his throat. “I don’t have my books,” he lists off, monotone. “We are outnumbered. There is only one way on the boat.”

“And Avantika has the orb,” adds Yasha.

“And Avantika has the orb.”

Not an encouraging start. “And our assets?”

With a snort, Caleb says, “My brains, Yasha’s strength, your steel.”

Fjord lets out a heavy breath, acutely aware of the pain in his midsection. He’s not one to call things impossible, but he’s finding it pretty hard to come up with a plan right now. If he had a month, maybe, but…

“Hey, at least you can walk now, that’s something,” says Caleb.

“Your brains, Yasha’s strength, and my steel against an entire pirate crew whose captain has weird water magic powers, and you think being able to walk is supposed to make me _happy_?”

Caleb shrugs.

“Well, let’s think about it,” sighs Fjord, heaving himself to his feet, and crosses the room to open the door. As he does so, he thinks he maybe hears quick pattering feet, but the hallway is empty. Old buildings like this make all sorts of noise. “Maybe one of us’ll have an epiphany.”

Looking thoughtful, Yasha exits. But Caleb remains in his seat, head still leaning against his hand and a contemplative frown on his face. “Somethin’ on your mind?” says Fjord.

Caleb lets outs out a long, slow sigh. “Just something Avantika said, back in the temple,” he murmurs. “That she would never bend the knee to another man or woman ever again.”

Pausing, Fjord tries to parse out the implications of this. “What are you thinkin’?”

“I am thinking that if that includes the Plank King, and she is making grabs at power, and furthermore if she is recording herself in a diary –”

“– then we could be talkin’ _treason_.” All the pieces fall into place with breathtaking clarity. “And the Plank King’ll rain hell down on her for that, he’ll tear her to fuckin’ shreds –”

“Yeah.” For some reason, Caleb looks a little sad. 

Fjord sits down on the bed across from him. “Feelin’ sorry for her?” he says, and he can’t help the hard edge in his voice. “ ‘Cause I ain’t.”

“No, no – well, maybe a little bit,” sighs Caleb. “But I have a certain sympathy for her position.” His eyes flash up to Fjord, piercing blue. “You have to admit the idea of never being under another man’s thumb has its appeal.”

Depends on the man, thinks Fjord, and then immediately flushes. Realizing Caleb is watching him curiously, he clears his throat and says, “Definitely been times when I wished that were the case, yeah.”

Caleb shrugs, absentmindedly toying with the edge of one of his bandages. “I would like that, I think,” he murmurs, gaze somewhere in the distance and probably in the past.

“Well,” sighs Fjord, considering. “Guess we better get your books back, then.”

\--

Oppan doesn’t have another spare room for Caleb and Yasha, so they sleep on pallets on the floor of his study. Caleb doesn’t mind; once again, it certainly beats the gutter. Even if he does wake up in the night to see Yasha silhouetted against the window, staring out into the darkness.

This night, however, he wakes up to Yasha lying solidly asleep and snoring on her pallet a foot away as something small taps his arm. Flipping over, Caleb ignites his fingers with sparks and comes face to face with the goblin, Nott, as Frumpkin jumps to his feet and hisses. She stands over him, her mask lowered to reveal a wide mouth with sharp teeth poking past her lips, and in her hands she clutches two objects that he instantly recognizes despite the dim light –

“My books!” whispers Caleb, bolting upright. “Where did you – how – you got them –”

“I heard you saying you needed them, and that they were on the _Tide’s Breath,_ so I snuck on and picked the lock…” Her wide yellow eyes fix anxiously on Caleb. “I got them for you.”

Resisting the wild urge to grab her and plant a kiss on top of her football-shaped head, Caleb whispers, “You are amazing!” He reaches for his books, but Nott clutches them to her chest, stepping just out of his range.

“Before I give them back,” she says, “I have a request.”

Well, that is to be expected. Frumpkin curls back up at the foot of Caleb’s pallet, watching Nott with his head resting on his crossed paws. “I do not have a lot of gold, but perhaps we can arrange a trade –”

“No no no, I don’t want gold.” Nott hesitates and bites her lip, one snaggletooth poking out. “I want to go with you.”

“Go with – me? On the ship?” says Caleb.

“Y-yes. Yes. On the ship.” Nott’s ears vibrate with nervous energy, and she takes a deep breath, drawing herself up. “And I want you to teach me magic.”

Settling himself into a more comfortable seated position, Caleb regards the goblin curiously, and pulls out a pinch of phosphorus to make better light. Nott’s broad pupils contract slightly in the sudden light, the amber glow reflected in her longing gaze. “You want to learn magic?” he says softly, conscious of Yasha still slumbering behind him.

Still clutching the books, Nott nods. “Oppan won’t teach me,” she says in a cracked whisper. “He doesn’t think it’s appropriate for a goblin to learn spells.”

“Well, you know, in the Empire it is illegal for goblins to learn magic,” says Caleb, and instantly regrets it when Nott’s ears and shoulders sag. “But we are not in the Empire, are we?”

A hopeful smile hovers on Nott’s lips. “So you agree?”

“Listen, you have proved me wrong, you are very capable of being sneaky and a thief.” Caleb gestures at his books. “So yes. Give me my books back, and I will teach you magic.”

Nott hands over the two tomes, and Caleb can’t help but sigh with relief as he takes them back, their worn leather covers mercifully unmarred. He hastily flips through the pages, checking for any signs of damage, but they seem untouched. “Thank you,” he says. “Truly.”

Her gaze sharpening, Nott says, “We have a deal. Don’t forget it.”

Caleb holds out one bandaged hand to her, and after a moment, Nott takes it in her own small paw. Torn strips of fabric wrap her own hands as well. “Deal,” says Caleb, very solemnly. “No takebacks.”

Grinning, Nott reveals the full extent of her jagged ivory teeth. “Deal.”

\--

At a table tucked into a shadowy corner of the main room of the Bloated Cup, Fjord turns a mug of grog around in his hands, keeping a sharp eye out for any remaining members of the crew of the _Tide’s Breath._ Resentment seethes under his skin at the Revelry carousing in front of him; what right do any of these miserable scallywags have to enjoy themselves when Captain Vandran, the best of them all, lies at the bottom of the sea with a cannonball at his feet –

Trying very hard to look inconspicuous and failing miserably, Yasha sidles into the main room, her eyes scanning for Fjord. When she catches sight of him, she cuts through the crowd, the massive sword on her back narrowly missing hitting others on the head as she squeezes by. “See anyone?” she says quietly, squeezing onto the wooden bench beside Fjord.

“No,” Fjord growls. “Any luck with the ship?”

“No, Avantika still has a watch posted.” Yasha sighs, folding her beefy forearms on the tallow-stained table. “What are you drinking?”

With a grunt and a shrug, Fjord downs another gulp of grog. They make it strong here, on Darktow, and it burns going down, just enough sugar and spices in it to make it bearable.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention; Fjord turns as a purple tiefling in an outlandishly patterned coat slinks up to the table from the back of the room, and his hand immediately goes to his knife. “ _There_ you are,” says Molly to Yasha, completely ignoring Fjord’s warning glare. “I’ve been looking all over this bloody town for _days_ , you have no idea –”

“You got approximately four and a half seconds to explain yourself before I stick this knife in your throat,” growls Fjord at him, partially unsheathing the blade to emphasize his point.

Molly tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow at Fjord, trinkets dangling from the horn that arcs around the side of his skull. “Relax, I’m here to help.”

“Did you follow me back from the ship?” says Yasha, frowning.

“Yeah, scoot over.” Molly slides onto the bench alongside Yasha, and she scoots over to make room, but Fjord refuses to budge and ends up with Yasha’s tree trunk of a thigh mashed against his.

Hand still tight on his knife hilt, Fjord says, “Help how?”

“Why –” says Molly, and fishes something out of a pouch on his belt that he pops in his mouth with an audible _crunch_. “Taking back the _Tide’s Breath_ , of course.”

Fjord stares at him for a long moment, trying to judge his sincerity, and those pupil-less red eyes stare right back without a hint of guile. “ ‘Cause of Yasha, right?”

“Well, yes, and also to be honest I feel completely terrible about the entire thing.” Molly gestures with long, claw-tipped fingers. “Not what I signed up for in the slightest.” He produces another of what looks like a small nut and eats it.

Eyes narrowed, Fjord leans back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest as the wheels in his brain start turning. “Now are you still on Avantika’s good terms, or have you burned that bridge as well?”

A wide, fanged grin splits Molly’s face. “Oh, she has no idea I’m here.”

“Good, we could use someone like you on the inside.” Fjord chews his lip contemplatively. “Anything I should know right away?”

Molly puffs out his cheeks, exhaling. “If you’re planning anything, better do it fast, because Avantika’s weighing anchor in two days.”

Two days. Cold ripples down Fjord’s spine, and his fists clench involuntarily. “Well,” he sighs. “And what about my crew? Who _didn’t_ you slaughter? Where are they?”

Wincing, Molly says, “I think about five, they’re in the brig on the _Squall-Eater,_ don’t think the captain’s quite sure what to do with them yet, to be honest.” He starts ticking them off on his fingers. “The halfling with the tattoos, the other halfling with the sharp teeth, the human girl from Port Demali –”

Divastiss, Maken, Emi, thinks Fjord. Good.

“– the swabbie, because she’s like what, twelve, we’re not _complete_ monsters –”

“Could have fooled me,” growls Fjord under his breath.

“– and the half-elf fellow with the black hair, the gunner.”

“ _Sabian_ survived?” Fjord stares at Molly, unable to wrap his mind around the monumental unfairness of a world where Captain Vandran dies and Sabian lives. “That son of a bitch?”

Molly shrugs. “He surrendered right away –”

“Always figured him for a fuckin’ coward,” mutters Fjord.

Caleb’s voice enters Fjord’s mind then, and although this isn’t the first time it’s happened, it still makes him jump. “Is it all right if I join you downstairs, are you occupied?”

“Come on down, but we got company,” mutters Fjord under his breath. Only once the last word has left his lips and the spell ends does he realize how ominous that might sound. And sure enough, when Caleb descends the stairs into the common room, it’s with the tense posture and wary gaze of someone expecting a fight. Behind him trails the goblin, Nott, hood drawn low over her head and porcelain mask covering her face. Fjord beckons them over.

As Caleb reaches the table and pulls a chair out, some of the wire-taut tension leaves his face. “So,” he says to Molly. “You are joining us, then?” Nott climbs up onto the other chair at the table.

With a grin and a wink, Molly says, “Looks like it.”

“Molly here says Avantika plans to ship out in two days,” remarks Fjord with forced casualness, though he keeps his gaze fixed on Caleb for his reaction. The only change is the subtle flex of Caleb’s jaw. “So looks like we need to work fast.”

“Hmm.” Caleb rubs at his upper lip with one finger. “Well, I have taught Nott a thing or two, so she will be able to help us as well.”

Fjord raises his eyebrows at this, teaching a goblin magic, but hell, it ain’t his place to judge. “What’s the plan, then?”

“I would say that is up to you then, isn’t it?” Caleb adds the slightest, potent pause, lamplight gleaming in his eyes, and says, “Captain Fjord.”

A fierce thrill runs through Fjord’s blood, torn between desire and apprehension of the title he never quite dared to hope for. “It’s bad luck to call someone a captain when they ain’t yet,” he says gruffly, masking his excitement.

The little smile that curls Caleb’s lips makes Fjord think he saw right through the mask. “All right, acting Captain Fjord.”

Glancing around to make sure no one is listening in – despite the darkness of their corner, and the general drunken revelry of the room, that doesn’t make their little group immune to sharp ears or prying eyes – Fjord leans in and says, “We’re stealin’ that diary, aren’t we?”

“Which diary?” says Molly, looking between them. “Avantika’s diary?” When Caleb nods, he whistles long and low. “And then what?”

“Well, we’re hopin’ there’s some sort of incriminatin’ evidence in there we can take to the Plank King, and then he’ll take her head off for us.” Fjord reclaims his mug of grog. “He don’t take kindly to double-crossing.”

Eyes just visible above the edge of the table, Nott frowns and says, “But if we steal her notebook, isn’t that double-crossing too?”

“Not quite to the same degree, I am sure,” says Caleb dryly. “Surely he makes some sort of distinction between the crimes.”

Fjord swallows down more grog, hiding a grimace as it burns. Vandran clutching his throat with wide eyes and bloody hands flashes before his eyes. “He better,” Fjord growls.

“If she keeps the diary in her quarters, then we need to go in when she is not there.” Caleb folds his arms on the table, brow furrowed in thought. “During the day, while she is busy with other things, perhaps?”

Molly shakes his head, still snacking on nuts. “Too many crew going back and forth as well, you’re going to be noticed.”

“I would agree,” pipes up Nott.

“So at night, then.” Caleb frowns. “Is she sleeping on the ship, or in town?”

Brow wrinkling in thought, Molly says, “In town mostly, but she’ll go back and forth sometimes. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Okay,” says Caleb, “then we just need to make sure she is occupied somewhere else. For a while.”

Ignoring Molly’s suggestive eyebrow waggle, Fjord scrapes a nail through candle wax that has dripped onto the table and hardened. “Some kind of rendezvous, perhaps? Some way to draw her out?”

With obvious glee, Nott says, “Bait the trap.”

All eyes turn to Fjord and he doesn’t like it, his cheeks growing warm. “Now,” he says, “hang on just a minute –”

“Avantika likes you, Fjord,” offers Yasha. “She talked about you a lot.”

“No – I am not – I am not _rendezvousing_ with this – this woman who –” sputters Fjord. “She killed Vandran!” He only just manages to keep his voice down, embarrassment and anger warring within him.

“She is _interested_ in you, Fjord.” A strange roughness darkens Caleb’s voice. “She tried to seduce you, back in the temple –”

The pewter mug in Fjord’s hand shakes with anger, metal warping slightly under his grip. “That was before she murdered my captain and my crew and took my ship and I nearly _died_ ,” he forces through gritted teeth.

“That might just make you more interesting,” Molly muses, chin propped on his hand.

Wedged in between the bench and the table, Fjord can’t jump to his feet and immediately storm out, but has to ease himself out first, the heat of orcish anger flickering at the edges of his vision. Not looking at anyone else at the table, he strides out to the back door, passing by the kitchen where the sound and smell of sizzling fat hits him, out another door, and into the alley and the warm humidity of the Darktow night.

Tilting his head back, Fjord closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath, trying to cool the pulse pounding at his temples. Ain’t going to help, getting mad at them, he tells himself. It’s just strategy. That’s all.

But he can’t stop thinking about the fear on Vandran’s face when Fjord first climbed onto the _Tide’s Breath_ ’s deck. Abject terror, not for himself, but for Fjord. Only there for a moment before Avantika’s sword cut through his throat.

The door to the Bloated Cup opens and closes, and quiet footsteps approach, slow and regular. “Fjord?” says Caleb.

On either side of the alley the buildings rise tall and dark, only a narrow sliver of sky visible above them. Piles of refuse and garbage stink in the balmy air. “I’m not doin’ it,” says Fjord, still looking up at the night.

Caleb steps up beside him; he’s acquired another coat, this one made from a darker and thinner fabric than his old sheepskin-lined one, and without any rips or stains. The sharp angle of the upturned collar accentuates his jaw, as does the way he’s pulled his hair back from his face in a short ponytail. “I’m not happy about it either,” he says quietly. “But sometimes we have to put our feelings aside for the sake of achieving our goals.”

The anger under Fjord’s skin is a living thing, crawling and simmering. “I don’t think I can do that,” he manages.

“Yes, you can,” snaps Caleb, glaring at him. “Of course you can. How else are you going to get your ship back? What better idea do you have?”

Fjord growls at him, because Caleb’s _right_ , and Caleb does not flinch. “So what, then? I’m supposed to just seduce her like none of this ever happened? You think that might not be a teeny bit suspicious?”

Sighing, Caleb holds up a hand. “Before I say what I am about to say, please do not hit me,” he says, tired. “All right?”

Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, Fjord takes another deep breath, willing himself towards calmness. “Okay,” he says warily.

“You tell her what she wants to hear.” Caleb’s voice is low and rough, the lines of his neck rigid. “You tell her she was right, about Vandran keeping you down. You thank her for freeing you from him –”

Rage pulses in Fjord’s blood, vision temporarily blurring as heady adrenaline sweeps over him. He counts to ten, slowly, exhaling through his nose. “You tell her what she wants to hear,” repeats Caleb, much gentler this time. “You keep her involved for as long as you possibly can, while we retrieve the diary. And _then_ you can have your revenge on her.”

“Do I _have_ to fuckin’ sleep with her?”

“Well, no, you don’t have to,” and Caleb’s face twists briefly, sour. “I would pref– You don’t have to. But it might be the most effective means to an end.”

Huffing, Fjord shoves his hands in his pockets. The half-healed wound in his stomach aches. “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe take it one step at a time, see where it goes,” offers Caleb. “I am thinking we send Molly in, tell him you are waiting for her here at the Bloated Cup, something like that.”

“Baiting the trap,” repeats Fjord in a mutter.

Caleb sighs heavily. “Ja.”

“And then what? You and Nott try to steal the thing?”

“With Molly’s help ideally, yes. Maybe he can be a lookout or something. Yasha should stay here with you in case of any… unexpected trouble.”

Fjord hates this. He hates all of it. The thought of speaking with Avantika again, of looking into those unnatural yellow eyes, of touching the same hand that held Vandran by the throat, makes his skin crawl. But he hates the idea of her at the wheel of the _Tide’s Breath_ even more. “All right,” growls Fjord. “I’ll keep her… occupied.”

Making the face of a man considering an idea, Caleb says, “What would happen if you just killed her?”

“And dumped her into the bay for the sharks to eat? Don’t think I haven’t considered it.” Fjord sighs wistfully. “But I’ve done some asking today. She’s not just Revelry, she’s pretty well-known Revelry. Rumors are she’s even one of the Plank King’s favorites. Temptin’ an idea as it is, I don’t think it’d go that well for us.”

“Damn,” says Caleb quietly. “Well. We should rejoin the others before they start having clever ideas about what we are up to alone.”

The heat that stings Fjord’s cheeks this time is different, and he is thankful for the darkness of night and Caleb’s human vision. “Yeah,” he says. “We should go.”


	12. Act IV, Scene 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Please do mind the "Dubious Consent" tag.

The Bloated Cup isn’t the only tavern in town; Fjord takes a room at the Landed Albatross so as not lead Avantika back to Caleb and the others there. As Fjord and Yasha leave for the Landed Albatross for Fjord to make his rendezvous, Caleb sits on the bed in his room at the Bloated Cup, running through the mental checklist of all his spells. Across from him, Nott crouches in the corner, watching him with eyes wide in curiosity. “Are you doing magic now?”

Caleb glances down at her, pausing at _Counterspell._ “No.”

A minute or so passes. “How about now?”

“No.”

“How about –”

“When I am, I will tell you,” says Caleb, raising an eyebrow.

Her eyes narrow, broad ears flattening, and Nott draws her knees up to her chest.

After seven minutes, Caleb draws out the copper wire from his spell pouch. “Okay, now I am doing magic, watch carefully,” he says, and Nott shuffles closer expectantly. Cupping the wire in his hands, Caleb whispers into it, “Are you there yet?”

“Just about,” comes Fjord’s response. “I’d go now.”

“All right.” Getting to his feet, Caleb pulls his coat around himself, adjusting his scarf. “Ready?”

Nott scrambles to her feet and draws her hood over her head before settling the porcelain mask on her face. “Let’s go.”

Though Caleb keeps a sharp eye out, no one seems to pay him and Nott much mind as they pass through the common room and slip out onto the street, the night air damp and faintly cool for once. A heavy fog hangs over the town, erasing the ends of streets and tops of buildings, and casting halos around the flickering flames of street lamps. Caleb keeps to the shadows under buildings, avoiding the other people who pass like shapes in the mist, Nott flitting from corner to corner ahead of him. She moves quietly, he has to admit. If he wasn’t looking for her, he wouldn’t even know she was there.

As they reach the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the piers comes to Caleb, lanterns hanging from posts creating pockets of yellow light. Near the _Squall-Eater_ , a hooded figure sits on a railing post, playing a lute, tinkling notes drifting off into the night. Keeping his pace casual, Caleb walks by the hooded musician, who glances up at him with a gleam of red eyes and a smile.

Molly strums the lute, the same chord three times, and then plucks a high note, signaling Avantika has left the boat. Nodding to him, Caleb continues past and into the shadows of an alleyway, where Nott joins him. “Ready?” mutters Caleb.

With a nod, Nott crouches and slinks off into the mist, disappearing so uncannily that Caleb wonders if she doesn’t already have some sort of unconscious magical talent. He gives her a few moments, and then digs another cocoon out of his pouch, crushing it in his fingers and sprinkling the fragments on himself as he thinks very hard about become small, so small, just the littlest feathery sparrow –

The world is suddenly much, much larger around him, buildings like massive mountains, the fog clinging in droplets to his feathers. Caleb flits through the air, high above the street, until he alights on the railing of the _Squall-Eater._

A single pirate keeps watch in the crow’s nest, and as Caleb waits, two guards walk along the dock, patrolling together. Once they pass the _Squall-Eater_ , a dark shape like a very large cat or raccoon scurries behind them, crouching under the cover of the gangplank onto the ship. After a moment, Nott runs up the gangplank and immediately ducks behind a large coil of rope on the deck. Caleb’s tiny bird heart thrums with tension, and he watches the barely-visible figure in the crow’s nest, but sees no movement. Is it common, to keep a watch on the ship while in port, or is Avantika paranoid? Caleb never thought to ask Molly that.

Nott makes her way across the deck in stops and starts, slipping from shadow to shadow so quickly that she might be mistaken for a trick of the light. When she reaches shelter of the stairs to the quarterdeck, she halts, crouching, a few yards away from the aft hatch to below decks.

Okay, here we go, Caleb thinks to himself, and flits over, landing beside the hatch. Dropping his bird shape, he casts _Major Image_ the second he can, creating a still, unmoving illusion of the deck and hatch between him and the watch in the crow’s nest. Beckoning hastily to Nott, Caleb crouches and pulls open the hatch as quietly as possible. With Nott’s help, they lift the trapdoor enough to slip inside and down the stairs, Caleb lowering the hatch into place behind them.

The interior of the ship is dark, and quiet. Sitting down carefully, Caleb pulls off his boots and pulls them through his belt so they hang off his hip. He can barely see, but Nott tugs on his coat, leading him forwards, and Caleb follows with slow, careful steps so that the boards barely creak under his feet. Surely by now Avantika has met up with Fjord; what are they doing now? In the dark it is all to easy to picture the two of them seated across each other at a table, flagons in hand and a challenge in Avantika’s eye –

Nott halts only a few more paces forward, the darkness in front of them slightly flatter. Metal clinks faintly, and few moments later, Caleb hears the slight but distinct sound of a door swinging open. Another tug on his cloak urges him forward, and he steps across the threshold, and the door shuts behind them, and they’re in.

There is more light in here; wide multi-paned windows line the back wall of the quarters, and the faint gleam of diffused star- and moonlight passes through them, outlining dark shapes within the room. Caleb waits, counting down twenty, fifteen, ten, five, but nothing stirs in the room. “Can you make a light?” whispers Nott, her voice harsh after so many long minutes of hushed caution.

“Yes, but we should block the door so no light comes through,” mutters Caleb. “And cover the windows, just in case.” Another mental image comes to mind, unbidden, Avantika leaning over the table to cup Fjord’s chin in her hand, her lips inches from his. He clenches his fist, a strange, uncomfortable heat smoldering in the pit of his stomach.

Focus, he tells himself, and grabs a blanket from the bed. He refuses to think about the bed, or beds in general, or what happens on them. Instead he hangs the blanket as best he can over the door, and as he does his fingers find something heavy and metal, intricately carved, in a niche above the doorway. Behind him, cloth rustles as Nott draws the curtains over the windows. “Okay,” she says. “Covered.”

Sprinkling phosphorus into the air, Caleb casts only one of his dancing lights, the single amber globule darting frantically above them. The metal thing above the door reveals itself to be an intricately carved iron statuette of an ouroboros, a many-scaled serpent clasping its own tail in its jaws. Small golden eyes line along its looping body, and within the circle it forms sits a metal sphere with a slit pupil carved into it. The base of the statuette is smudged with a dark brown stain, either rust or blood.

Caleb has a sneaking suspicion it is blood.

Snapping Frumpkin into existence, Caleb sets him to watch the door while he inspects the room. A large, ornate wooden desk occupies the center of the room, and Caleb crosses over to it, yanking open drawers and rifling through papers. The sooner they get what they came here for, the sooner they can leave.

But the image of Avantika’s hand closing around Fjord’s arm, her long nails sinking into his green skin, burns itself onto Caleb’s brain. He can see the flash of her predatory smile as she grabs Fjord’s jaw and pulls him into a kiss –

Snarling, Caleb slams a drawer shut, sparks flying from his fingertips. He braces himself against the desk, head hanging, and takes a deep breath and then another. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. This means nothing. This doesn’t bother you.

“Caleb?” says Nott hesitantly.

Exhaling heavily, Caleb straightens. “Can you check this desk for any hidden panels or secret compartments, maybe?”

“I certainly can.” Nott begins tapping on the back of the desk with her knuckles, running her long clever fingers along the seams.

But all they turn up is maps of trading routes, and some pens and ink and paper, some of which Caleb stuffs into a coat pocket. “Maybe there’s a trapdoor!” says Nott, and begins pulling up the many colored rugs covering the floor.

“On a ship?” mutters Caleb, turning over the room with his eyes. A bookcase has been wedged into one of the corners, crammed full of books and boxes, and he squints at it.

“You never know.”

The sooner they get this diary, the sooner this can end. And if Avantika takes Fjord up to his bed, then Caleb doesn’t care, that’s just part of the job –

Caleb strips the bookcase of its contents, inspecting and tossing aside each book (nothing arcane, no diary, nothing useful) and pushes against the back panels, seeking a hidden compartment. Nothing gives.

Growling, Caleb kneels and yanks open the drawer underneath the bookcase. A collection of goblets and cups rolls around inside, clinking against each other. “Nothing under the rugs!” whispers Nott, disappointed. Seated in front of the door, Frumpkin glances back at her, tail lashing.

Pulling the drawer free completely, Caleb dumps out the cups, which roll across the floor, and inspects the bottom for a false panel. Again, nothing. Gesturing his light over, Caleb crouches so he can peer into the empty cavity under the bookcase, and – aha.

A small, leather bound journal lays in the corner, carefully tied shut. Sitting back, Caleb mutters the arcane words and traces symbols through the air to detect magic. Nothing, but that doesn’t preclude any traps. “Nott,” he says, voice wire-tight. “Come over here.”

She hastens to his side, Frumpkin maintaining his post at the door. “What is it?”

“See that –” and Caleb points to the journal. “Can you see if there are traps in there?”

Crouching, she crawls halfway into the empty space, ears pinned back out of the way. Her head cocks this way and that, nails scraping over joints in the wood. “I’m not seeing anything,” she says, and grabs the journal, sitting back.

A hissing noise starts, very faint.

“Oh,” says Nott. “Oops.”

“What did you _do_?” snaps Caleb.

Journal clutched tightly in one hand, Nott leaps to her feet and grabs Caleb’s hand with the other. “We need to go, we need to go!” she yelps, and tries to yank him towards the door.

A faint green fume begins to emanate from under the bookcase, and Caleb smells something acrid and chemical. Leaping to his feet, he hoists Nott up under one arm – she shrieks – and bolts for the door. Tearing the blanket from the doorway, Caleb bursts through, Frumpkin running with him, and shuts it behind them, extinguishing his light. He waits in the darkness with a pounding heart, so loud he can’t believe no one else hears it. But nothing else stirs in the sleeping ship around them.

With a jolt, Caleb realizes Nott’s tiny fists are hammering against his side. “Put me down!” she hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” mutters Caleb, hastily setting her down. “You got it?”

“ _Yes._ ” She sounds put upon. To make it up to her, Caleb has Frumpkin rub up against her side, but she shies away from this too.

They don’t get a second chance at this heist. “Give it to me,” says Caleb, crouching under the stairs, and reaches for their prize.

Nott fumbles the little leather-bound book into his hands, and Caleb envelops himself in his coat, drawing it over his head and around his front. Under this meager shelter, he whispers a little light back into existence, untying the journal and flipping through its pages as Frumpkin pokes his head up under the coat. He doesn’t have time to cast _Comprehend Languages_ , but already he can tell these are not words he knows. Quite possibly Avantika’s own personal shorthand. But tucked among the writing are maps, maps to southern islands only distantly familiar to Caleb, with Urukayxl circled among others, and a drawing of a very familiar pupiled eye…

“Ja,” says Caleb, under his breath, extinguishing the light and emerging from his coat. “We got it.” He puts his boots on. “Let’s go.”

They emerge onto deck as slowly and cautiously as a mouse leaving its nest. Now that they have the book, the stakes are that much higher, and Caleb’s breath comes fast and unsteady. But he needs to focus, he needs to be calm and collected, and he swears at himself in Zemnian until he feels a little less jittery. “Okay,” he growls, and gives Frumpkin a few strokes on the head before sending him back to the Feywild. “Let’s go.”

He slides out from under the hatch onto the deck, Nott following after him. But as they lower the heavy door back into place, it slips from Caleb’s fingers, and falls with an audible _thunk_ back into the frame. Nott freezes, eyes wide, and she squeaks.

“Huh?” says a distant voice from the crow’s nest.

Pulling a scrap of fleece from his spell pouch, Caleb twists it between his fingers and conjures an illusion, just an illusion, of flames licking up the mast and into the crow’s nest. “Fuck!” shouts the pirate on watch. “Shit!”

“ _Run,_ ” says Caleb to Nott, and he bolts.

They both sprint off the deck, down the gangplank, onto land, and into the shadow of the nearest alley. Caleb flattens himself against the wall of the building, clutching a stitch in his side and gasping for breath. He still has the book, tucked inside his jacket. He still has the book.

Nott peers around his legs at the flames on the _Squall-Eater_ , shouts of “Fire!” rising up along the docks as guards run over. With a swipe of his hand through the air, Caleb dispels the illusion, and draws back further into the shadows.

“Come on,” he says to Nott, still breathing heavy. “Let’s go.”

They slink back through the fog, towards the Bloated Cup. Still buzzing with nervous energy, Caleb pulls out the copper wire to message Fjord. “Objective achieved, we are on our way back.”

Caleb waits for a response, throat tight, as he and Nott hurry back through the silent streets of Darktow, but nothing comes. He must still be with Avantika, Caleb thinks. It hasn’t been _that_ long. If he really kept her occupied…

A bitter hand grabs Caleb’s heart and he ignores it because it _doesn’t matter_ , his strides growing faster and longer as he makes for the Bloated Cup as fast as possible. Nott scurries along behind him, cloak fluttering around her ankles. They reach the tavern shortly and Caleb walks in and takes the stairs up to the rooms two at a time, finding his and shutting the door behind him before sinking down onto the bed, drawing the journal out.

“So,” says Nott, and Caleb jumps; he hadn’t realized she followed him in. She climbs up on the bed beside him, pulling her mask down, and sniffs the little book. “Can you read it?”

The journal shakes ever so slightly in his hands as he opens it again. “Not yet, but if you stay there and be quiet, maybe you will see some more magic,” he murmurs. First he snaps Frumpkin back, his cat arching his back and rubbing up against his side. Then from two little packets inside his spell pouch, he tips out a sprinkle of soot and salt into his palm, rubs it onto his thumb, and then smears a glyph on his own forehead. As he speaks the spell to himself, tongue careful on the ancient syllables, the markings on the page before him don’t change, but they become meaningful. Caleb reads hurriedly, scanning through each page with a dawning sense of vindication as he realizes this is _exactly_ what they need. “Oh, yes,” he mutters to himself, turning a page. “Oh, we have you cooked now –”

“What does it say?” says Nott, peering over his arm. “I can’t read it.”

“Ja, that is because Avantika wrote it in her own code –”

“No, I mean I can’t read.” She blinks up at him, teeth protruding over her lower lip.

Raising his eyebrows, Caleb says, “Well, maybe that is another thing I can teach you later. For now, I need to concentrate on this, okay?” And he taps the journal page. He can understand this for now, but for anyone else to see the evidence, he needs to break the code, and for that he needs time.

Lots of it.

But when Nott leaves him alone with the journal and Frumpkin and his thoughts, Caleb can’t help thinking about where Fjord is right now, what he’s doing, is he done with Avantika yet? The bitter hand on his heart clenches tight again, and Caleb doesn’t _want_ to put a name to what he’s feeling because that means admitting he has some sort of claim to Fjord, some _reason_ to feel jealous –

Grumbling, Caleb pulls out the pen and ink he stole from Avantika, and begins to work on the cypher, and if his hand grips the pen harder than they need to, or his shoulders hunch up so high and tight his muscles ache, then that doesn’t mean anything at all.

Except it does.

It _does._

It does and Caleb can’t stand it, can’t stand the thought of Avantika touching Fjord, kissing Fjord, _fucking_ Fjord, it burns him like a live coal and finally Caleb has to toss the journal to the side and get to his feet, pacing the room from wall to wall. Frumpkin miaus, worried, and draws back, the fur on his back rising slightly. With sparks dancing under his skin, Caleb has to rake his hands through his hair, lacing them behind his neck. It’s not that he _wants_ Fjord back here with him, not that he wants to feel Fjord’s skin under his hands, or his lips on his own –

The door opens.

\--

Fjord can’t stand the idea of sitting and waiting in his room for Avantika to appear like some sort of damsel awaiting a suitor, so he goes down into the common room, finding another table in a shadowy corner. This time, though, he avoids the grog, wanting to keep as clear a head as possible.

About ten minutes into his watch, the door to the tavern opens, and Avantika enters, plumed hat perched jauntily on top of her red curls, the female ogre a hulking shadow behind her. The hum of conversation dips slightly and then resumes, and Fjord catches the gleam of her pleased smile as she knows she made an entrance.

Glowering, Fjord stays where he is and waits for Avantika to find him. Just before she catches sight of him, he remembers he’s supposed to be charming her, and Fjord quickly smooths out his expression just as recognition curves her smile further.

“So, Fjord,” she says, walking up to his table. Despite the casual grace of her saunter and the easy curl of her lips, her hand is on her sword hilt, and her yellow eyes watch him with predatory wariness. The ogre trails a few feet behind her, edging through the tables to mutters from other tavern patrons; her head is only a few inches below the ceiling. “I was informed you wanted to talk.”

Her caginess puts him more at ease; she knows he’s playing the game, and that there can only be one winner. Equal footing. “Yes,” he says, feigning hesitation, but allowing a little bit of his burning tension to show through. “I think there needs to be some discussion between us.”

Avantika cocks her head curiously and draws out a chair, sitting down opposite from Fjord. “Very well.”

Fjord takes his time starting the conversation, though, flagging down a bar wench and ordering two pints of grog. “I must admit,” says Avantika, once the wench has left. “I am surprised to see you alive. And… free.”

Smiling tightly at her, Fjord says, “Yeah, I’m full of surprises like that.”

“Apparently.” Her uncanny gaze roams over him curiously. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the disappearance of Caleb Widogast as well, and the defection of one of my crewmembers?”

“Maybe.” Fjord shrugs, leaning back with his arms folded over his chest. “I’m not really here to talk about them.”

Avantika’s eyebrows arch. “No? Then what are you here to talk about?”

“You know what.” He keeps his voice low, his gaze on her unwavering.

“Huh.” Avantika sits back as well, appraising him, but is forestalled from saying anything further by the return of the bar wench, who sets down two wooden mugs of ale, the foam slopping over the rim. Drawing his mug closer to him, Fjord turns it in his hand but does not drink, and neither does Avantika. “I assume you are speaking about the –” she drops her voice to a murmur “– secrets of the orb?”

Fjord twists and channels the anger inside him to look like burning interest. “I want to know more,” he says, hoarse.

“And you are not mad about…” Avantika twirls a hand vaguely through the air, her eyes narrowed. “You know. All of _that_.” Behind her, the ogre grunts and half-smiles, teeth yellow and cracked.

This is it. Fjord takes a deep breath, swallowing his feelings deep, deep down. “No,” he says. “No, I – I actually have to thank you. You were right. I didn’t realize how constrained I was until my chains were removed.” He does not break eye contact with her or flinch, ignoring the bile that rises in his gut. _I’m sorry,_ he tells Captain Vandran. _I don’t mean it. I’ll make it right._

A slow, slightly incredulous smile spreads across Avantika’s face. “Really?”

Not trusting himself to speak any further, Fjord nods.

“Well.” A glitter of excitement that Fjord recognizes from the temple lights Avantika’s eyes. “Then I have a lot to tell you, but perhaps out here is not the place. Do you have a room here we could retire to?”

Forcing an easy smirk, Fjord says, “Why, I thought you’d never ask,” and gets to his feet. “Does your, uh, companion plan to partake in this conversation?”

Avantika smirks. “Not unless you want her to.”

Looking over the mountain of muscle, Fjord says, “I’d rather not.”

Snorting, Avantika instructs the ogre – Bouldergut, she calls her – to stay and guard the staircase. “Okay,” rumbles Bouldergut, and grins. The other tavern patrons do not look happy.

Walking past her, Fjord heads into the back hallway and up the stairwell, the dark wood planks creaking under his feet, the single oil lamp hung on the wall casting wooly shadows. But he can hear Avantika ascending behind him.

Stopping at the door to his room, Fjord turns, making sure no one else followed them up. But it’s just him and Avantika in this wooden hallway, and if Fjord has the reassurance of Yasha waiting in the room next to his, her sword sharp, Avantika doesn’t need to know that.

Avantika draws up close to Fjord, not quite touching him, eyeing him from under the brim of her hat. “And how do I know you are not luring me up here to take your revenge?” she murmurs.

Gambling on her liking for danger, Fjord says, “You don’t.”

A breathless second passes, and then Avantika smiles again, canines sharp. “Very well.” As Fjord opens the door behind him and she steps through, her fingers trail over his arm.

Fjord lights the oil lamp in the room, extinguishing the match with a flick of his wrist, and leans back against the wall. “So tell me,” he says. “I’m very curious, I’ve never met anyone who had dreams like I do, and who felt that orb callin’ to me like you do. I want to know what it means.”

Circling the small room, Avantika looks over the single bed, the unlocked wooden chest, the paned window open to the night air. “And I, also, have never met another chosen until you,” she says. “It has been many, many years of searching before I was finally granted Uk’atoa’s favor.”

 _Stole, not granted_ , Fjord wants to say. “By favor, you mean the orb?”

Avantika takes her hat off and carefully sets it on top of the chest. Then, finger by finger, she pulls the glove off her right hand and shows her palm to Fjord, where the yellow crystal sits embedded into the center of her hand. The lamplight glints off of it, shadows darkening the carved pupil, and for a second Fjord swears it moves.

“Is that –” Despite himself, Fjord can’t help the curiosity that pulls him forward. “Is it _in_ you now?”

“It is.” Avantika watches him, pleased with his reaction. “The blessing of Uk’atoa is a part of me.”

Fjord remembers the orb in its box under his vest and its magnetic thrum, and the way Avantika doused Caleb’s fireball easy as blinking, and then with a sudden jolt he remembers the second crystal, found in the sea hag’s cave and currently –

Does Caleb still have it? He hasn’t mentioned it. Fjord doesn’t know.

Avantika has stepped closer to him, frowning. “Fjord?”

Giving himself a shake, Fjord says, “Sorry, I was just lost in contemplation of what kind of power that might be.”

She puts one slim brown finger up under his chin, and Fjord raises his eyebrows down at Avantika. Is it anger, adrenaline, or something else that makes his pulse hammer? “Are you fascinated by power, Fjord Stone?” she says.

“I might be,” he says slowly, and steps aside from her. “I want to know more about these orbs.”

Folding her arms, Avantika shifts her weight onto one hip and regards Fjord calculatingly, long pointed ears flattened slightly. “And then what?”

Deep breath, face smooth. “Well, I assume if you’re goin’ after more, I’d like to go with you,” he says. “If we’ve both been chosen, as you say, then I think we ought to be workin’ together.”

Her yellow eyes search his face, hunting out a lie, and Fjord looks back at her as steadily as possible. “I’ve always considered myself a very lucky person,” she says, in almost a sing-song murmur. “At first I thought this was a terrible portent, when this beautiful Uk’otoa spoke to me. It was a purpose that nobody else in Darktow knew of, and with that I began to gather my crew. It took a while, but each of them began to believe as well. All of them support me now, and when this is done, the blessing is high. Nay, he is unstoppable behind me as I am on the sea.”

“He meaning… Uk’atoa?”

“Aye,” says Avantika, eyes glittering. “He has already granted me control of water, for bearing one of his seals. With the next two… who knows? When Uk’atoa is free, all the seas will be under my command.”

_REWARD._

The memory of the voice from his dreams, Uk’atoa’s voice, echoes within Fjord, and his breath catches. “Two more orbs?” he manages.

Avantika nods slowly. “Three of his eyes, left behind to break the seals and free him into the world.”

The serpent on the temple wall, with three eyes, rising out of the waves. “The temple,” says Fjord slowly. “That was – that’s one of the seals, isn’t it?” He remembers the dark well, the water trying to draw him in.

“Yes,” says Avantika, face alight with zeal. “And now that I have _this –_ ” she holds up her hand with the crystal again “– we can return, I can unlock the first seal, and I will _truly_ be blessed –”

Fjord swears the eye in her palm moves, glancing towards him, and the air hums and he suddenly wants to grab his knife and carve it out, leave a bloody gaping hole in her hand as he claims the orb for its own – “And how do _I_ figure into these grand plans?” he says, and before she can draw back, grabs her wrist.

Instead of fighting, her grin widens, and she leans her body up into Fjord’s. “Why, you come with me,” she purrs. “And maybe we will find another blessing of Uk’atoa’s for you.”

Fjord can feel Avantika’s pulse pounding in her wrist, her torso taut against his, and he _hates_ her, hates the smug curl of her lips like she has him cornered, hates the golden gleam in her eyes, hates the way she tilts her head back to expose the slender, _fragile_ , column of her throat. He wants her as far away from him as possible and he also wants to drive a knife into her until she spills out all her secrets, and then suddenly, in the corner of his mind, he thinks, _Did she say the same thing to Vandran_?

With a wince, Avantika twitches her wrist in his grasp, and Fjord realizes his grip tightened to hurt. “What was that about luring me up for revenge?” she says, maintaining a playful tone, but he doesn’t miss how her other hand moves closer to the hilt of her rapier.

He has a knife at his side and Yasha in the other room. “Haven’t made up my mind yet,” Fjord growls.

“Well,” murmurs Avantika, face tilted close to his, “maybe I can help make it up for you,” and she kisses him.

Her lips are a little warm against his, chapped with saltwater, and her other hand finds the back of Fjord’s neck to pull him down closer to her. Fjord freezes, torn between physical desire and roiling hate, and Avantika takes this as invitation to kiss him deeper, her fangs pricking his lip, her body leaning into his.

_CONSUME._

Growling, Fjord kisses Avantika back, yanking her hand down. His thumb slides over the smooth surface of the orb, and it seems to vibrate under his touch. The orc in him rears its ugly head, wanting to kill, wanting to _fuck_ , while his human instinct hates all of this. Torn between his two halves, he digs his fingers into Avantika even as he jerks back from her kiss.

“I understand,” whispers Avantika, face inches from him. “The anger. The pain. I have felt it too. What do you think power is but freedom from that pain? What greater freedom is there than the seas?”

Fjord shivers, the eye calling to him. “I don’t know,” he confesses.

“Neither do I,” she breathes, and kisses him again.

Her nails scrape over the back of his neck, and her other hand twists to grab his wrist, pulling it to her hip. Fjord snarls under his breath, tasting his own blood as her fangs break his skin. Hard to think past the haze in his brain; hard to know where to lead.

 _The longer you can keep her occupied, the better_ , says Caleb in his head. Not a spell, just memory, but it cuts through enough.

Hanging onto Avantika, Fjord steps back towards the bed, but it’s closer than he expected and it hits the back of his knees, knocking him off balance. With sudden wiry strength Avantika pushes him down onto the bed, the frame creaking as she swings one long leg around and another to straddle his hips. The weight of her on his lap makes Fjord’s groin draw hot and tight at the same time as his skin crawls under her yellow eyes. But Avantika doesn’t give him time to think or pause, kissing him hungrily as she yanks open the laces on his shirt. “Now,” says Fjord. “Hang on –”

“What, you are getting cold feet, huh?”

The blood rises to Fjord’s face, affronted. “Hardly,” he says, and on impulse grabs her ass. Avantika smirks. “I just prefer to take my time. Make the whole thing _last._ ”

“Well, I am afraid I am not as patient as you,” and Avantika yanks Fjord’s shirt off and over his head.

Fjord stiffens, extremely conscious of the air on his bare skin and the still-ugly wound in the middle of his stomach. As Avantika trails one finger possessively down his chest, a shiver runs down his spine, somewhere between desire and disgust. “That will be quite the scar,” she says, touching the still-healing tissue around the wound. It hurts, and Fjord hisses through his teeth.

“Well, I got you to blame for it,” he growls, and grabs her wrist again, forcing her hand away. Smirking, Avantika curls her fingers, testing his grip. “Don’t think just because I’m throwin’ in with you I don’t want some kind of compensation.”

“Oh, I can compensate you, all right,” she says, and pushes Fjord back so forcefully his head hits the mattress.

Fuck it, if Fjord has to be half-naked, so does she, and he tugs on the lacings of her leather bodice, trying to loosen them. Avantika watches him fumble at the knot with scorn glittering in her eyes. “Not so experienced, I see.”

“Go to hell,” retorts Fjord, cheeks hot. He hates her. He _hates_ her.

Avantika unlaces her vest swiftly and divests herself of her blouse and undershirt, baring her slender torso and small breasts. Tattoos scroll over her skin, waves and dragons and mermaids along her ribs and shoulders, and in the center of her chest, under her collarbone, a single yellow, slit-pupiled eye. Mane of red curls tumbling wild around her head, Avantika settles herself on Fjord’s hips, grinding slowly against him with a self-satisfied smile curling her lips.

 _Vandran fucked her too._ The unwelcome thought pops into Fjord’s head and oh gods, he’s going to be sick, this is _not_ the way he wanted to follow after his captain. But he swallows it down, trying for a smolder but managing only a glare. Close enough. Seems to work for Avantika anyway, as she plants her hands on his chest and leans forward, back arching. “Like what you see?” she purrs.

Fjord can’t possibly come up with an honest answer to that so he just grunts, pulling her in for another kiss. Her bare skin presses against his, warm – Fjord’s always run cold, everyone feels warm to him, especially Caleb, Caleb who every time Fjord touches him seems to burn fever-hot –

Breaking free, Avantika grazes her teeth over his neck and to the soft spot behind Fjord’s ear, and he grunts again, head tilting back reflexively, eyes closed. “You are very pretty, for a half-orc,” Avantika murmurs, low and rough. “With those big brown eyes and those long lashes and those pretty lips, bet you can do a lot with that mouth of yours…”

To Fjord’s embarrassment he groans, cock hardening, his stomach clenching painfully. “Want to show me?” says Avantika. “Want to be a good boy –”

Cold fury surges in Fjord and he snarls, flipping her over onto her back and looming over her. “Do _not_ ,” he growls, pinning her to the mattress, “call me that _ever_ again.” He half-draws his knife, to show he means it. “Or I will stick this in you.”

Brief alarm flares in Avantika’s eyes before she regains her seductive smile, writhing slowly under Fjord. “All right,” she says smoothly. “But I would still like to see what you can do.”

Fjord narrows his eyes at her. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” And Avantika’s legs twist around his, one shin pressed to his hip and the other yanking underneath his, and in a heartbeat she has Fjord thrown onto his back again, rolling on top of him. Rising up on her knees, she unbuckles her belts and unlaces her pants, stripping them off along with her boots and tossing everything to the side; her sword _clunks_ on the floor. Only wearing her smallclothes now, Avantika leans back over Fjord, her hair tickling over his skin as it falls past her shoulders, and she slides a hand along Fjord’s jaw, one thumb pulling down on his lower lip.

Fjord’s face grows hot again as he knows she can see the worn nubs of his fangs and he glowers at her, one hand gripping her thigh. Under his touch, her muscles are hard and wiry, a thin scar breaking the smoothness of her skin. “Your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” he growls, twisting his head free.

“Why, I thought you wanted to take your time,” remarks Avantika smugly. “And for the record, I never knew my mother.”

“What a coincidence,” says Fjord, with acid humor. “Neither did I.”

“Well, then I would say we are pretty evenly matched.” Avantika pulls her smallclothes down, revealing a triangle of short red hair between her legs, and leans to the side to remove them completely.

Fjord can smell her, the salt of sweat and the sharp musk of her arousal and it curls something feral in his blood, his pulse pounding loud in his ears. Makes it hard to think, as she settles her knees on either side of his head. Makes it hard to move, as she positions herself so her cunt is only millimeters away from Fjord’s face. “Go on,” Avantika murmurs, and threads a hand through Fjord’s damp hair. “Show me.”

It’s not the first time he’s done this, although it’s damn near close. Holding Avantika’s hips tight to keep her still, Fjord dives in.

She is hot to his touch, hot and slick, and the taste of her fills Fjord’s mouth as he finds the nub of her clit. Fjord uses his tongue, insistent pressure, and her thighs on either side of his head are warm and close and he can barely breathe and the lumpy mattress digs into his back, the muscles in his neck starting to twinge from the angle of his head, and _keep her occupied, keep her here, keep her away from Caleb_ starts to chant in his head. Fjord lets his head drop, breathes through his nose, and Avantika groans, frustrated. “Don’t stop, you were just starting to get somewhere –”

“Can’t a fellow take a little breather?”

“Oh honey, if you are going to stick with me, you will need to learn how to hold your breath.”

Fjord digs his thumbs into the tendons between her thighs and groin, and Avantika jumps. “I still haven’t made my mind up about revenge,” he warns.

“Oh, fuck me first and then kill me, very classy.” Avantika rolls her eyes. “Back to it before I get bored and take my pleasure elsewhere.” Her hand in his hair tugs, insistent.

Fjord takes his time, trying the best of his admittedly limited craft. But it works, eventually – Avantika begins to pant, breath scraping high in the back of her throat, and her thighs tremble, sweat dripping down them. When she does come it is with a long, low moan, her shoulders hunched as she braces herself on her arms, her hips lifting slightly. “Well,” she says, catching her breath, and sits back on Fjord’s chest. Damp tendrils of red hair stick to her forehead. “Not bad.”

Wishing he had water, Fjord wipes his mouth on his forearm. “Thanks,” he says tartly. “You gonna return the favor?” The least he can get out of this whole fuckin’ debacle is an orgasm.

The predatory slant to Avantika’s grin makes him immediately regret his words. “I can do more than that.” Swinging off of Fjord, she unbuckles his belt and yanks his pants down to his knees, and Fjord tenses, more exposed than ever. Avantika drags her palm – the left one – over Fjord’s hardening cock, her nails catching on the weave of his smallclothes. Fjord wants to snarl at her to stop being a damn tease and get it over with, but he’s _supposed_ to take his time, isn’t he, supposed to give Caleb the time he needs. Huffing, Fjord settles himself on the bed, pants still bunched around his knees as Avantika slides her hand over his groin again.

She strokes him again, and again, blood rapidly rushing to Fjord’s cock, and he tilts his head back and clenches his hands in the bedding. If he comes here in his smallclothes like a damn teenager, she’ll eat him alive. After a few moments of this, Avantika seems to have had enough, and she pulls his smallclothes down, the air cool on his erection. “ _Well,_ ” says Avantika, pleased, and delicately wraps her hand around his shaft, “looks like your orc blood has some benefits too, no?”

Caught between the shame of everyone who ever called him half-blood and the lurching desire in his gut at her touch, Fjord rumbles in his chest, glaring up at the ceiling. Smirking, Avantika straddles Fjord again, and right as she sinks down onto his cock, Caleb’s voice enters Fjord’s mind, for real. “Objective achieved, we are on our way back.” He sounds rough with exertion, slightly breathless.

Fjord catches his breath, eyes wide open, whole body twitching, thoughts careening wildly to Caleb. “New to this too, huh?” says Avantika, self-satisfied, and rocks her hips, making Fjord groan. “Ohh, _yes,_ mmm…”

His heart pounds wildly, breath sticking in his throat, and Fjord scrapes his still-booted heels over the floorboards as Avantika rides him, her thighs clenching around his hips. As she moves more and more vigorously, her panting turning to breathy cries, the tension inside Fjord builds and builds and builds. In his mind’s eye he sees Caleb, hurrying back through the dark streets, a sharp light in his blue eyes as he glances behind him, his mouth pulled tight with wariness, the little dip in the top of his upper lip, the pink curve of his lower lip, the scratchiness of his copper stubble –

Avantika is making an awful lot of noise now, the bed creaking, and Fjord’s heart hammers and his stomach tightens painfully and as he comes he falls back into his head, away from his body. Though Fjord is vaguely aware of Avantika clenching around him and liquid trickling between his thighs and white noise in his ears, what fills his thoughts is firelight on copper hair and a rough but gentle hand supporting his head and indistinct murmuring in a quiet voice…

Gradually, Fjord comes back to his surroundings, ears ringing and sweat cooling on his bare skin. Avantika pulls herself off of him, looking tired but pleased, and flops down onto the bed beside Fjord. Her chest rises and falls with her heavy breaths, breasts soft and round, ribs and abdomen lean and long, and she closes her eyes.

If there were a time to kill her, it would be now, wouldn’t, slide a knife in between her ribs while she’s laying here relaxed and vulnerable. But Fjord can’t muster the energy to care.

Groaning slightly, he sits up, looking around for a cloth to wipe himself down with. Apart from his or Avantika’s clothes, the only thing readily available is the bedsheets. Feeling grimy, Fjord pulls up a corner and wipes off his groin and thighs before standing and pulling his pants back up.

Avantika watches him, yellow eyes tracking his movements. “Are you going?” she says.

“Yeah?” Fjord can’t imagine being here a moment longer than he needs to. “Why, you want me to stay?”

“No.” She doesn’t seem displeased; if anything, there’s a hint of smugness to her expression and her languor as Fjord collects the rest of his clothing and affects. “You know where to find me.”

Cold anger touches Fjord’s stomach, and before he can think better of it, he snaps, “Which ship?”

Avantika’s lips curl. “Why, my flagship, of course. The _Squall-Eater_.”

“Right.” Fjord manages a tight smile while ice crystallizes at the back of his brain. “Then I guess I’ll see you there.”

“I look forward to it,” says Avantika, and grins.

Not trusting himself to speak further, Fjord leaves and goes to Yasha’s door, taps quietly at it. She cracks the door open, peering at Fjord. “Let’s go,” says Fjord, tiredly.

She thankfully does not say anything as they head down the stairs and leave. The ogre leers at Fjord as he passes her.

As they walk back to the Bloated Cup through the thick fog, Fjord finds himself uncomfortably conscious of his hands and not wanting to touch anything, disgust cling to his skin like a thin film of grime. He can’t shake the feeling of Avantika’s hands on him, like cobwebs clinging to him, and every time he remembers her calling him “good boy,” his stomach churns. He wants to plunge himself into the ocean and let the saltwater rinse away all evidence of the past hour.

At least they got the diary, though, Fjord tells himself. And if it takes Avantika down, it’ll be worth it.

Yasha walks silent at his side, and Fjord can’t bear to meet her eyes.

Returning to the Bloated Cup, Fjord slips inside, not wanting anyone to look at him. Thankfully, this late at night most of the common room is empty, only a handful of old hands sitting around deep in their cups. Sighing, Fjord ascends the stairs to the second floor with Yasha, who goes to her and Nott’s room. Reaching the room he shares with Caleb, Fjord opens the door. “Hey,” he says, stepping into the room. “How’d it go –”

Caleb whirls around from pacing the room, an uneven flush on his cheeks, a wild light in his eyes, and before Fjord can fully process what’s happening, grabs Fjord’s face in his hands and kisses him.

Frozen in surprise, it takes Fjord a second to react. Caleb’s lips hot and dry on his, his stubble scraping pleasantly on Fjord’s skin, instinctive longing rekindling in Fjord’s gut. But he can’t touch Caleb, not with his hands that feel so filthy, and the way Caleb’s finger sink into his hair remind him of the hungry way Avantika kissed him and it’s just too much all at once. Fjord breaks away with a gasp, stepping back. “Sorry,” he manages. “I – I can’t, not right now.”

Slowly, Caleb draws back, expression shuttering, and a disappointment Fjord did not expect hits him. “Maybe, uh – maybe later,” Fjord stammers. “I just – not right now, I feel _dirty._ ”

Caleb tilts his head, a new light in his eyes. “Okay,” he says quietly, and the low burr in his voice sends a little shiver of delight up Fjord’s spine. “Let me know when that is.”

Fjord’s cheeks grow very, very warm, and he has to clear his throat several times. “Yeah,” he says. “Will do.”

It takes Fjord a long, long time to fall asleep that night, acutely conscious of Caleb sitting on his bed across the room from him, one little light hovering above his head as he writes feverishly, protective silver thread encircling the room and his cat curled around his shoulders. So long, in fact, that Fjord almost hopes for dreams of Uk’atoa to come claim him.

But none do.


	13. Act IV, Scene 5

As the faint light of dawn begins to shine through the cracks in the window shutter, Caleb rubs his tired eyes, staring down at the almost-complete cypher in his hands. A couple of symbols continue to elude him, Avantika just didn’t use them consistently, and he considers just calling it good enough. But no, surely if he stares at this a little longer, the answer will come to him –

Someone raps on the door sharply and Caleb jumps, bleary and high-strung with lack of sleep. Fjord starts awake as well, immediately wincing and putting a hand to his stomach. “Wha?” he mumbles, groggy.

Three quick knocks sound on the door again and Fjord frowns, sitting up and reaching for his knife. Tucking the journal and cipher hurriedly into his coat, Caleb readies himself to cast _Magic Missile_ and clears his throat, nodding at Fjord.

Knife drawn, Fjord pads over to the door, leaning up against the wall beside it. “Who’s there?” he says, still hoarse with sleep.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s me, open the door,” says Molly.

The suspicion doesn’t entirely leave Fjord’s face but he complies, Caleb slumping back in relief. “What is it?” asks Fjord.

“Hi,” says Molly, to Caleb. “What happened to you, you look dead on your feet. More than usual, I mean.”

Caleb allows himself a little smile of triumph and waves the journal at Molly. “I got it.”

“Yeah, I know you did, Avantika’s turning the bloody ship upside down looking for it, she’s got the entire crew pissing themselves in fear.” Molly glances warningly from Caleb to Fjord. “If you’re going to the Plank King, I would go _now_ , before she finds out you have it, or takes her frustration out on the prisoners.”

Buckling his belt on, Fjord says, “Right,” and bends to pull on his boots. Caleb immediately begins gathering his things, including spooling up the silver wire he laid down the night before. “Then let’s go.”

The early morning air is cool, mist hanging silvery under a deep blue sky as Caleb and Fjord hurry through Darktow and up the road to the Plank King’s roost. The sheer cliff face of blackish stone rises ominously above the broad stone stairs, the drop to the ocean below growing higher and higher as they ascend along the road. Every so often, Caleb passes a pike with a head impaled on it, some freshly rotting, some just skulls picked clean and weathered yellow-white. “So anyone can do this, just walk up to the Plank King?” he says, panting slightly as they head up the path. “You don’t need to make an appointment?”

Fjord gives him a funny look, which Caleb supposes he deserves. “No, no appointment needed, anyone can go to him,” he says. “Most don’t, though.”

“Why?”

Puffing, Fjord says, “Too scared.”

“Oh, he is a scary man, this Plank King?” Caleb tries very hard to keep the derision out of his voice; he mostly succeeds.

“Yes, he is,” says Fjord, cocking a wry eyebrow at him. “Goliath. He killed the previous Plank King, that’s how he got the title.”

Somehow Caleb is not surprised at all. “Have you met him before?”

Each long stride carrying him steadily upward, Fjord says, “Once, when I first came to Darktow after Captain Vandran brought me on the ship. It’s customary for any new members to the Revelry to be introduced to the Plank King, and Captain Vandran vouched for me in front of him.” Fjord falls silent, expression somber.

Caleb slips a hand under his coat to make sure Avantika’s journal is still there. Between the sunlight and the hike upwards and the dark fabric of his coat, he is beginning to sweat and grow warm. “Do you think he will look favorably on you, then?”

Sighing, Fjord shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t really know. Plank King knows Avantika better than me, probably likes her better. He’s not really the trustin’ sort.”

They both lapse into quiet again, boots crunching on the gravel and sand scattered on the stairs as seagulls cry overhead, the ocean a constant rhythm below. Caleb’s thoughts spin back to last night, not to the heist, but to his stupid, impulsive kiss. He should have really known better than to spring that on Fjord, especially when he knew Fjord was unhappy with seducing Avantika. Shouldn’t have just kissed him like that, no wonder he pulled back.

Though he did suggest _later_ , a small voice reminds Caleb. He didn’t say _never,_ just _not now._ That’s something, isn’t it?

He was just letting you down nicely, says a much nastier and more familiar voice. Didn’t want to drive you off at a key point in the plan. He’s handsome, young, charismatic – why would he ever want someone as broken as _you_? Why would _anyone_?

Fjord at the moment does not look particularly amenable to kissing, his brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth tight as they approach the threshold to the Throne Roost. From the wide stone shelf that overlooks the bay, the expanse of the ocean seems immeasurably vast, an infinite blue bowl that cups the little island of Darktow in its center, the roofs of the town below like dollhouses. The cave mouth gapes before them, two guards standing at a vague approximation of attention. “What’s your business with the Plank King?” calls one of them, as Fjord and Caleb approach.

“We have important information for him,” says Fjord steadily, not intimidated (not visibly, at least). “Information that I think he’d want to hear as soon as possible.”

The one guard raises his eyebrows at the other, who shrugs. Like the other guards Caleb’s seen around Darktow, they don’t wear a formal livery, their only insignia a black patch, depicting a white hand clutching a bleeding heart, on their vests. Symbol of the Revelry or the Plank King’s personal flag, Caleb’s not sure. He suspects the latter.

“All right,” says the first guard, a lean, salt-and-pepper haired human male, and the second ducks inside the cave. “Stay here, we’ll let him know.”

Fjord nods, drawing back slightly. His hand hovers near his knife, relaxed but never far away. A breeze ruffles Caleb’s hair, carrying the tang of the ocean with it. It’s a smell he could get used to, he thinks. That and the way the line between the sky and the sea blurs in the distance. Caleb yawns behind his fist, exhaustion dragging at his eyelids as the wait stretches on.

Caleb counts out twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds before the second guard comes back. “Come on,” he says, beckoning Fjord and Caleb forward. “The Plank King will see you now.”

Taking a deep breath, Caleb straightens his coat and strides forward.

Torches light the tunnel into the mountain, orange light flickering on the rough rock walls. After passing through two broad double doors, Caleb and Fjord come into a much larger chamber. Scattered benches and chairs face a dais where a massive, blocky stone chair has been carved directly from the rock.

“Well, what have we here?” says a deep, earthy voice, and a goliath strides in from one of the side doors, settling a loose cotton robe over his massive shoulders, wearing only plain breeches underneath. Scars and angular tattoos mark his face and bare chest, and a mane of matted black curls spills over his shoulders. “Ye’ll excuse my disheveled appearance, ye interrupted me in the middle of my morning exercises.” He grins, sweat gleaming on his broad temple, and Caleb spies a welt or two rising along his ribs, the remnants of recent blows. “Fjord Stone, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” grunts Fjord.

“I haven’t seen _ye_ before,” says the Plank King, pointing a meaty finger at Caleb as he steps up to his throne. “Who are ye and why are ye here?” He settles himself in the chair, not even a single cushion padding his seat.

Caleb clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. “My name is Caleb Widogast, I am an associate of Fjord here. This is my first time in Darktow.”

Chuckling, the Plank King says, “Well, then welcome to our little island. I am Wyatt Maranoss, king of the Revelry, and I hear you have something very important to tell me.” He turns his pale gaze back on Fjord. “Where’s Vandran?”

The muscles in Fjord’s jaw tighten, tendons in his neck standing out. “Well, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about,” he says. “Captain Vandran’s dead.”

Maranoss stills, turning to a stone figure on his throne. “Is he now?” he rumbles, and the dark edge to his tone sends the hairs on the back of Caleb’s neck standing up. “And how did a wily old seadog like Erik Vandran meet his inevitable end?”

Exhaling deeply, Fjord lifts his chin and straightens his spine, and in that one small moment of bravery Caleb loves him deeply and irrevocably. “He was betrayed by an ally,” Fjord says. “Avantika. They had a partnership, and she murdered him and all but five of my – our – crew.”

“Did she now?” Maranoss’ sparse eyebrows raise; his hairline sits not quite right on his head. “Captain Avantika Mouette, this would be?”

“Aye,” says Fjord.

Maranoss leans in towards Fjord, frowning, one heavy hand braced on the blocky arm of the chair. “Now why would she do a thing like that?” he says slowly.

Clearing his throat, Fjord says, “Captain Vandran and Avantika were workin’ together to secure an artifact of great power, and had planned a joint expedition to secure it. But Captain didn’t trust her, so he sent me and Caleb down to explore the area first. When we returned to the ship, she…” Fjord has to stop, clearing his throat savagely again. “Avantika had murdered him and most of the crew and took the _Tide’s Breath_ as her own, as well as the artifact.” He jerks his chin up, staring down the Plank King. “She took Captain sending me and Caleb out as a betrayal, and acted… accordingly.”

Rumbling again, Maranoss leans back in his chair, broad face foreboding. “And is that all?”

“No,” says Caleb, and swallows hard. “No.” He draws the journal out of his jacket. “We have her diary.”

Maranoss’ eyes, ice blue, travel over to Caleb. “How did ye come by _that_?”

“Well, that is neither here nor there,” mutters Caleb hastily, and Maranoss snorts. “The point is, she – she encoded everything she wrote, but I was able to decipher it, and – here.” Caleb flips to the page he dog-eared. “She was seeking this artifact because she believed it would give her control of the seas, and she writes that once she had that power, no one could fail to bend the knee to her, not even the Plank King.”

His words hang in the air, hovering in the space between the rough-hewn rock walls. Caleb holds his breath, watching Maranoss, who remains as motionless as a mountain on his throne. He does not dare look over at Fjord.

With a heavy inhale, Maranoss sits up straight and holds out a hand. Obediently, Caleb steps forward and gives him the journal, drawing back with a slight bow. He can hear his own heartbeat thudding like a drum in his ears.

Maranoss thumbs through the journal, which looks as small as a toy in his giant hands. As he does, his frown deepens. Finally, he looks up and says to one of the guards standing posted in the room, “Fetch Solon.”

“Yes, sir,” and the guard departs immediately.

Sighing heavily, the Plank King returns his attention to the journal, paging slowly through it. Finally, Fjord clears his throat, quietly at first, and then with more conviction. “Sir?”

“Ye can go.”

“But what about –”

“Ye will be summoned when I need ye. There will be a trial.” Maranoss finally looks up, a terrible expression on his face. “Now I believe I said, _go._ ”

Caleb takes an instinctive step back, but Fjord stands firm. “One small request, then,” he says. “The surviving members of my crew are still being held in the _Squall-Eater’s_ brig. If you could free them –”

“Members of the Revelry bein’ held captive on our own shores?” rumbles the Plank King, volcanic. “In our own city?”

“Aye,” says Fjord, with half a glance at Caleb, who holds his breath.

Tendons in Maranoss’ arm stand out as his hand clenches into a fist. “Guard!” he bellows, and several more men and women rush in, swords drawn, who glance at Fjord and Caleb in alarm before looking to their king. “Go down to the docks. Free whoever is currently in the brig of the _Squall-Eater_ , and bring Captain Avantika to me.” He glares at all of them. “Now _go_!”

Caleb does not need telling twice, hurrying out alongside Fjord and the guards. Back out under the blue sky, he draws to the side of the cave entrance, leans into a crag in the rock with his hands on his knees, and very quietly hyperventilates.

“Caleb?” says Fjord, concerned, and draws near. “You all right?”

Holding up one finger, Caleb counts along to five and struggles to match his inhale and exhale to the count. Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf. Fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins. Eins, zwei, drei…

After a few moments, he gets himself under control and straightens, sweat cool on his temples. Fjord has a hand half-lifted as if to help, concern furrowing his brow. “I am okay,” says Caleb hoarsely.

Fjord does not look convinced. “You sure?”

“Ja, I just get. You know.” Caleb clears his throat, gesturing vaguely. “Stressed.”

“I don’t blame you, he’s an intimidatin’ man.” Fjord blows out a heavy breath of his own, glancing back at the entrance of the cave. “Still. You did well in there.”

A note of pride warms Fjord’s voice, and he smiles at Caleb, who stares back up at him. “You did not do so bad yourself.”

Chuckling, Fjord rubs his recently-shaven jaw. “Yeah, could have gone worse, all things considered. I don’t envy Avantika now, that’s for sure.”

“No, me neither,” mutters Caleb, falling into step alongside Fjord as they begin to descend the stairs. Nor does he feel bad for her. “Was, um – was the Plank King wearing a wig? To my knowledge goliaths do not have much hair.”

Fjord grimaces. “Yeah, so, uh… that’s the scalp of the previous Plank King.”

“Ah.” Now that the rush of adrenaline is leaving him, exhaustion hits Caleb like a brick between the eyes, and he focuses very carefully on where he is putting his feet. This is not the place to lose his balance. “I see.”

They make their way back down, towards the docks. Caleb spies a commotion in the direction of the _Squall-Eater._ “I’m gonna go over, make sure what’s left of my crew is all right,” says Fjord. “What about you?”

“Back to the Bloated Cup, I need a nap,” says Caleb, hazy. “I will see you there.”

“Yeah.” Fjord hesitates, looking in the direction of the ships, and then steps closer in to say, “You did good though, Caleb, really. I mean it. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

His voice is as earnest and steady as bedrock, like a solid wall Caleb can lean on, and god, does he want to. It takes his tired mind a second to realize he’s staring at Fjord again, mouth stupidly open. “Oh, uh. Group effort,” he manages.

Fjord smiles a little, a warmth and intensity to his gaze that makes Caleb’s ears heat up. “Sure it was,” he says. “I’ll see you in a bit,” and he strides off towards the ships.

For a few moments, Caleb watches him go, his dark head and broad shoulders receding into the bustle of the docks. Then he shakes himself and heads into town, stumbling up to his room in the Bloated Cup, and throws himself down on his cot and falls asleep.

\--

Not one to waste time, the Plank King convenes the trial that very evening. The Pirate’s Court is a long, broad hall at the north end of Darktow, its construction from heavy beams and vaulted ceiling mimicking the architecture of the Throne Roost. Torches lining the walls flicker orange, shadows dancing, as Fjord stands beside Caleb on one side of the court, his palms sweating and his pulse thudding in his throat. Across the hall from him stands Avantika, guarded but not bound, a bruise on her cheek and chin held arrogantly high, and other Revelry fill the rows and rows of benches behind them, more crammed into the wooden gallery and even packed standing at the back of the hall. And in front of Fjord, in a chair hewn together from whole logs, sits the Plank King, now garbed in his blue velvet coat and wearing a wig of white curls like the judges in the Menagerie Coast do. Several others flank him, including someone Fjord vaguely recognizes as his scribe, and a mysterious hooded figure whose face is hidden in shadow.

“Ready?” murmurs Caleb, glancing at Fjord. The torchlight gleams on his eyes, shadows pooling under his cheekbones and jaw. 

Fjord remembers the sheer terror in Captain Vandran’s eyes when he saw Fjord climb on deck, and squares his shoulders. “Yeah.”

Smiling slightly, Caleb nods. And then, stepping up close to Fjord’s side, he squeezes Fjord’s wrist in a brief second, the gesture hidden by their long coats. “You have this,” he says, very quietly.

A queer thrill runs down Fjord’s spine, and for a second all he can think of is Caleb grabbing his face and kissing him last night. But before he can say anything else, the Plank King bangs the butt of his heavy staff on the floor, the gathered crowd falling silent to the echoing thuds. “I hereby call this court to order,” he calls, deep voice carrying through the hall. “Where we stand to observe the trial of one Avantika Mouette, for double-crossing and attempted _treason_.”

He growls out the last word, lip curled, teeth gleaming. Shouts and jeers rise up around the court, and Avantika only lifts her head higher, eyes glittering. “And here stand her accusers, Fjord Stone and Caleb Widogast,” the Plank King continues.

Fjord hears more than one distinct taunt of “Half-breed!” and his cheeks grow hot as he bites his lip over the growing nubs of his tusks. Sparks flash in Caleb’s eyes.

“Now,” rumbles the Plank King, “speak your accusation, Fjord.”

Taking a deep breath, Fjord steps forward to the rail separating him from the Plank King and those with him. “I was the quartermaster for Captain Vandran, on the _Tide’s Breath_ ,” he says. “Captain Vandran and Captain Avantika were out on the sea together, on a joint venture to recover an artifact of power. On the twenty-eighth of Thunsheer, I and my fellow crewmember Caleb Widogast were sent on an exploratory mission, and when we returned to the ship, Avantika and her crew had killed all but five of the crew of the _Tide’s Breath_ , including – including my captain.” Fjord clears his throat, looking only at the Plank King, whose expression is unreadable in the shifting light; behind him, murmurs rise like the tide. “She nearly killed me, too.”

He knows Yasha is in the audience, somewhere. He tries not to think about that as he pulls up his shirt, showing the Plank King the ugly, still-healing scar in the middle of his abdomen. Nostrils flaring, the Plank King leans in to peer at it before drawing back with a snort. “And is that all of your accusation?” he says.

Fjord glances at Caleb, who nods. “No,” says Fjord. “There’s more.”

Stepping beside Fjord, Caleb says, “Your Majesty, we uncovered a diary of Avantika’s –”

“Stole, you mean!” bursts out Avantika, and the murmuring rises to a steady chatter of conversation. “They stole –”

“Quiet!” barks the Plank King, banging his staff on the ground again. “Ye’ll have your turn to speak.” He glares around at the room until the audience quiets before turning back to Caleb. “Proceed.”

“A diary, which you have in your possession,” continues Caleb, as collected and unfazed as if there had been no interruption. The Plank King reaches a hand out, and an older man with thick spectacles and a goatee steps forward, placing the journal in his palm. “Ja, that one.”

Grunting, the Plank King hands the journal back to the older man. “Read it.”

The older man licks his thumb and opens the journal to a marked spot. “‘Once Uk’atoa is freed, the power of the seas will be mine,’” he reads. Beside the Plank King, the hooded figure shifts slightly. “‘And with such a power at my command, who could fail to bend the knee to me?’” He hesitates, adds, “‘Not even the Plank King himself.’”

Whoops and howls rise up from the audience, and for the first time, fear crosses Avantika’s face, her eyes widening. “No,” she says, barely audible over the din, “that is not what it says –”

 _Bang, bang, bang_ goes the Plank King’s staff on the wooden floor. “Avantika!” he roars. “What do ye have to say in the face of these charges?”

“They betrayed me first!” she shouts, pointing at Fjord and Caleb. “Vandran and I had a partnership, but he went behind my back to try and retrieve an artifact first, and then, when I confronted him on it, _his_ crew attacked _me_!”

“That’s a lie!” Fjord yells, anger prickling his skin. “I saw you slit his throat –”

 _Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang_ goes the staff, until silence falls again. Fjord glares at Avantika, his chest rising and falling, and her yellow eyes glitter with malice as her lip curls. “And what do ye say to the charge of treason?” says the Plank King, like stones tumbling over each other.

“That is – I did not – I did not mean I _intended_ to overthrow you, your Majesty,” says Avantika, with a desperately ingratiating smile. “It was a metaphor! A figure of speech!” More jeers rise up from the crowd. 

The mysterious figure steps forward, lowering their hood to reveal a woman, younger than Fjord would have guessed, with bronze skin, angled eyes, and brown hair shaved short on the sides and drawn into a heavy knot on top. Blue and green jade gleams at her earlobes and neck. “Your Majesty,” she says, in a husky voice, “if I may, I might be able to cut through some of the… bullshit.”

Avantika’s eyebrows raise. “And who is this?” she asks disdainfully.

For the first time that night, the Plank King smiles, and it worries Fjord more than any other expression. “Just a guest of mine on business from the Cobalt Soul, on a seemingly unrelated but perhaps fortuitously connected errand,” he says. “Thank you, Expositor. I’m sure I will have great need of your talents later.” The woman nods and draws back into the shadows, but her keen eyes travel over Fjord, leaving him feeling uncomfortably dissected. “For now, though, I ask, does anyone lend their voice in support or denial of these charges?”

For a moment, the entire hall seems to hold its breath. “I do,” says Molly, strolling up the central aisle, his purple skin and patchwork coat vibrant among the crowd, silver charms dangling off his long tail. A couple of people whistle at him. “I stand in support of these accusations.” And he takes his place on the other side of Fjord, winking at him. Fjord nods back, relieved that his secret suspicion that Molly would vanish into the night rather than come to the trial was unfounded.

The Plank King scrutinizes him, brow furrowed under the white wig. “Who are ye?”

“Mollymauk Tealeaf, at your service,” and he bows with a flourish. “Former crewmember on the _Squall-Eater_ , under Captain Avantika.”

Murmurs rise up again, and the Plank King leans forward like a shark smelling blood. “Former, ye say? And when did ye and the captain part ways?”

Molly grins, fangs white and sharp. “A few days ago.”

“Then speak your support.”

“I was on the _Squall-Eater_ when the conflict happened,” says Molly. “It’s true, Vandran sent Stone and Widogast down in advance of the deal he made with Avantika. But when she found out, she boarded his ship and ordered us to kill any of the crew who resisted. She searched the ship, claimed the artifact for her own, and killed Vandran in front of us all.”

Varying cries of either support or denial rise up from the crowd, and Molly spins around to face them, arms outspread. “She did!” he proclaims, and for a moment Fjord swears he can hear a second voice speaking with Molly, honeyed words in an infernal tongue. “She had him at her mercy and she slit his throat for no other reason than because she could –” Pirates yell for blood, fists pounding, feet stomping. “Look at her _eyes_!”

 _Bang-bang-bang-bang._ “Is there anyone else?” roars the Plank King.

From amongst the gathered crowd, a half-elf slinks forward, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, amber eyes avoiding Fjord. Sabian. He makes his way up the central aisle, and then turns to Avantika’s side, joining her at the rail.

Cold anger sweeps over Fjord, freezing him in place as the Plank King says, “Who are ye?”

“Sabian Krake,” he answers. “Crewmember of the, uh…” and Sabian hesitates. Tell them, growls Fjord in his head, tell them what ship you’re on, you piece of shit. “Master gunner of the _Tide’s Breath._ ”

More yells, more jeers, more pounding, all distant beyond the throbbing of blood in Fjord’s ears. “I was on board the ship, the night before everything happened,” says Sabian, raising his voice to be heard. “I was passing by the captain – Captain Vandran’s – quarters when I overheard him talking with Stone and Widogast, and I stopped to listen. He said –” Sabian stops, swallows hard, continues “– he said as soon as he got this artifact, he was going to kill Captain Avantika so she could never have it, and just to be safe he ordered Fjord to have her entire crew killed too –”

Ice cracks into blazing shards. “That’s a damn lie, you son of a bitch!” Fjord roars, lunging towards him. Both Molly and Caleb grab him, dragging him back, and Fjord shouts in anger, trying to throw them off. “You fuckin’ take that back, you ain’t even fit to lick Captain’s boots –”

“Fjord,” says Caleb, low in his ear, cutting through the noise. His hand grabs the shirt over Fjord’s heart, restraining him. “Listen to me. You need to keep your head. Do you understand?”

Fjord growls in wordless anger, Molly’s claws digging into him as he grips tight. “I know,” says Caleb, the only thing Fjord can hear besides the roaring in his ears, his tunnel-vision locked on Sabian. “I know. Believe me. I _know_ ,” and his voice shakes, and he gives Fjord a little shake too. “But now is not the time.”

Chest heaving, Fjord stares at Sabian, who looks away. “Okay,” says Fjord, voice hollow in his own ears. “Okay,” and he steps back, breathing hard.

Caleb and Molly both let go, Molly patting Fjord on the shoulder. Where Caleb grabbed Fjord, a very faint singed handprint has been left behind on his clothes. The yelling of the crowd behind him merges into formless noise.

The Plank King bangs his staff for silence again, and as it falls, the Expositor steps forward. “Your Majesty,” she says, “I can’t help but notice that there’s been an awful lot of mention of this one thing nobody seems willing to directly discuss. This _artifact._ ” Advancing to the center of the space between the Plank King and the rest of the court, she says, “What, exactly, are we dealing with here?”

She looks from Caleb, to Fjord, to Avantika, and Fjord hesitates, not sure what he should or shouldn’t say. “A crystal,” says Caleb hoarsely, and all eyes turn to him. “One that could perhaps channel the power of Uk’atoa, the great Leviathan. There is, um –” and he gestures to the journal that the older man still holds. “There are drawings, in there.”

Raising an eyebrow, the Expositor crosses over and takes the journal, inspecting the drawings. As she does, a wrinkle forms in between her eyebrows. “Now, just how many of these crystals are there?” says the Plank King.

Hands clasped behind his back, Caleb looks up at him and says, “Just one.”

Fjord keeps any and all emotion off his face, he doesn’t dare glance at Caleb, but in that moment a flash of memory hits his mind, Caleb in the underwater cave tucking the crystal into his spell pouch, and Fjord _knows._ Caleb still has the second crystal. Adrenaline catches his breath, his heart pounding again, and his fingers tingle.

“Now, there are more out there, but I have only found one, and –” Avantika speaks in a rush before suddenly stopping short, with the alarmed look of someone who’s said too much.

Frowning, the Expositor looks from Avantika to the journal again, and then leans up to say something into the Plank King’s ear. He has to lean far to the side for her to reach. Whatever the Expositor’s words are, they darken the Plank King’s expression. As he straightens, he says, “Then who has it now?”

“She does,” says Fjord, at the same time Avantika says, “They do –”

Sighing, the Expositor rolls her eyes and starts unwrapping her brown cloak, revealing a cropped shirt, chiseled abs, and baggy blue pants underneath. “Your Majesty, permission to –”

“Permission granted,” he grunts. “Start with _him._ ” And he nods at Fjord.

“Wh–” says Fjord, and the Expositor punches him in the face.

Fjord reels with the two sharp hits to the jaw and temple, his head spinning. Before he can recover the Expositor grabs him by the front of his shirt to keep him from falling and says, “Do you have the orb?”

“No,” groans Fjord, dazed, because he _doesn’t_ have it, Caleb does.

The Expositor looks down her pierced nose at him and snorts. She drops him and Fjord staggers against the railing, Molly putting an arm out to steady him. “I don’t like that woman,” Molly mutters as the Expositor crosses over to Avantika.

Avantika gets the same treatment, a one-two to the face, and she staggers back. Leaning over the rail, the Expositor hooks her hand through Avantika’s baldric and drags her in, saying, “Do you have the orb?”

Half-standing, breathing hard, Avantika glares up at the Expositor but does not answer. “I’m going to ask you again,” says the Expositor slowly. “Do you have the fucking orb?”

“I recommend ye tell the truth,” rumbles the Plank King from his seat. Head pounding, Fjord regains his footing and rubs a hand along his aching jaw.

Her breath shallow and her eyes darting around like a hunted thing, Avantika raises her trembling, gloved hand. Her right hand.

Rising, the Plank King crosses over, bootsteps heavy on the ground. Avantika flinches back but he catches her hand before she can withdraw it, and pulls off the glove. The eye of Uk’atoa gleams golden in the torchlight, almost seeming to move with the shifting shadows. Trembling with fear and anger etched on her face, Avantika stares up at the Plank King, who gazes down at the crystal in her hand with a furrowed brow. “Thank you, Expositor Beauregard,” he rumbles, low and ominous. She nods and withdraws, but her sharp gaze flashes to Fjord and Caleb again, and Fjord swallows hard with the uncanny feeling that she knows more than what he said.

“So,” muses the Plank King in a subterranean tone, “this is the crystal that would grant ye the power of the seas.” His thumb circles the orb in Avantika’s palm; the entire court has fallen silent, holding their breath. Fjord’s heart pounds hard in his chest with sudden, terrible apprehension…

Slamming Avantika’s hand down on the railing, the Plank King draws the short sword at his side, arcs it through the air, and brings it down through her wrist in a single powerful stroke.

Avantika screams, falling to her knees, her red blood sprayed across the wood and the front of the Plank King as he holds her severed hand up to the light, eyeing the crystal. “No!” shouts a hoarse female voice, and a woman Fjord vaguely recognizes from Avantika’s crew with graying hair and tattered robes over her leather jerkin rushes forward, falling to her knees beside Avantika. She mutters words under her breath, gesturing over the bleeding stump, and the flow of crimson begins to lessen.

The Plank King pays them no mind, instead stepping back to the center of the court and digging into Avantika’s hand with the point of his blade, trying to dislodge the crystal. Still a little off-balance from the Expositor’s strikes, Fjord swears the crystal glitters brighter than it should through the blood, calling his attention, calling _to_ him.

_CONSUME._

The eye does not come free easily; the Plank King has to carve it out, scraps of flesh still clinging to the crystal as he drops Avantika’s hand to the ground. Nostrils flaring, the Plank King closes his hand around it, and as his knuckles tighten Fjord suddenly fears the crystal cracking and shattering. But nothing happens. Fjord glances at Caleb, who has gone bone-pale. “Well, who could have seen _that_ coming?” mutters Molly, one hand on his hip, so flatly Fjord’s not sure if it’s sarcasm or not.

The Plank King opens his bloody hand and looks down at the orb again, scrutinizing it. “How do I claim it?” he demands, turning to Avantika.

Breathing harsh and with tears streaming down her cheeks, bloody cloth wrapped around her stump, Avantika glares up at the Plank King from under the shelter of the older woman’s arm. “Of course I will tell you, my king,” she says, contorting her face into a smile. “But would you really want me to speak out the path to such power in front of all of… these?” and she looks pointedly around at the gathered Revelry. An admittedly shifty bunch, Fjord thinks, and yet he wants to know too.

“Hrm.” The Plank King snorts down at her, blood dripping from between his fingers, and then turns and strides back to his seat. As he does, he treads on Avantika’s severed hand, spurting blood across the weathered floor, and she squeaks involuntarily.

Settling himself in his seat, the Plank King gazes out across Fjord, across Caleb, across Avantika, across all those standing around. “I hereby pronounce my verdict,” he says. “I don’t give a fuck who double-crossed who, Avantika or Vandran. I ain’t here to arbitrate your squabbles on the sea. But _this_ ,” and he holds up the orb, “and what ye wrote in _that_ ,” and he jerks his chin at the journal the Expositor holds, “tell me all I need to know.” He squares his shoulders, glaring down at Avantika. “Captain Avantika Mouette, I hereby find ye guilty of attempted treason, of the highest order.”

The audience erupts into jeers and screams, stomping on the floor and pounding on railings. Their feverish glee sweeps over Fjord, who has to take a second to let out a heavy breath. They did it. They _did it._ Caleb’s hand finds his elbow, gripping tight enough to hurt.

“And for your crimes,” roars the Plank King above the noise, grasping his staff again, “I sentence ye to confinement until we sail forth tomorrow into the open sea.” A terrible, nasty smile splits his face. “And maybe then we can petition your Uk’atoa and see just how deeply he cares about his chosen, and where he thinks power should _truly_ lie.”

Avantika goes pale under her brown skin. “And then – and then what?” she manages, licking dry lips.

The Plank King’s terrible smile widens. “Well, then we’ll see.”

“We should go,” mutters Caleb, pulling Fjord back a step. “We should not be here –”

“Ah-ah-ah!” bellows the Plank King, pointing his staff at Fjord. “Ye ain’t free of this neither. I want ye on the ship with me tomorrow.” He frowns, glancing at Caleb. “Ye _and_ Widogast. Yer all mixed up in this too, and I don’t trust leavin’ ye behind.”

Taking a deep breath and mastering himself despite the nervous thrumming in his stomach, Fjord says, “Of course, Your Majesty. At what time tomorrow should we present ourselves?”

The Plank King snorts. “First light. Don’t run, or I’ll do to ye what I did to her,” and he nods at Avantika. “Now go. Court dismissed!”

He pounds his staff on the ground rapidly again and again, multiple of his guards striding forward to yank Avantika to her feet and escort her out, shielding her from the pirates on either side of the aisle yelling for her blood. “Please,” says the older woman, hurrying alongside them, “let me go with her –”

“It’s fine, Vera,” mutters Avantika. She shoots one last poisonous glance at Fjord before the crowd surges in behind her, disgorging out of the hall and into the night. He tries to keep an eye on Sabian as well, but the slippery little fucker disappears into the crowd.

“Hoo boy.” Caleb lets out a long, heavy breath, and Fjord glances at him sharply to see if he starts having a panic attack again. But although he still looks pale, he keeps himself upright. “Now we should go.”

The Plank King and his retinue begin to file out as well; as they pass, Expositor Beauregard glances at Fjord and Caleb and Molly all standing together, and a knowing smile curls the corner of her mouth. “I _really_ don’t like that woman,” says Molly, tail twitching irritably.

“You did it!” Nott runs up to them with wide excited eyes, Yasha trailing after her, looking quietly miserable. “You _got_ her!”

“We didn’t, the Plank King did, and we are not out of the woods yet.” Caleb accompanies this dire pronouncement with striding forward rapidly, after those leaving the hall. Other servants have come in to start cleaning up the blood. “Come on, let’s go.”

They emerge out into the night, the mob surrounding Avantika making its way deeper into town, their hollering rising up into the night. “Listen,” says Fjord. “About tomorrow. I want all of you on that ship with me.”

Molly cocks an eyebrow. “Plank King just said you and Caleb, you think he’ll let the three of us on too?”

Blowing out a heavy breath, Fjord considers this; probably not, but the thought of just him and Caleb being on that ship without any backup gives him the serious heebie-jeebies. “I’ll ask,” he says. “Maybe he’ll be feelin’ more generous in the morning.”

Caleb snorts.

“Yeah, I know,” sighs Fjord. “I know.”

“Well, come on,” says Molly, and claps Fjord on the shoulder. “I think we’ve all earned a drink, at the very least.”

“God, yes,” pipes up Nott.

“So how about we head to the Bloated Cup, we get absolutely _pissed_ , and we worry about tomorrow when we get to it?”

Fjord glances over at Caleb, but he’s standing off to the side, arms folded and brow furrowed as he stares off in the direction the mob departed. After a few long moments, Caleb still does not respond, and Fjord turns back to the others with a sigh. “All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

\--

Caleb drinks the half-decent ale at the Bloated Cup slowly, watching Molly and Nott and Fjord carouse with the few remaining members of the _Tide’s Breath_ crew, Yasha sitting silently beside him. “I guess you are glad to be rid of her, huh?” Caleb says to her.

“Yeah.” Yasha takes a long drink of her grog.

“Worried about tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Yeah,” sighs Caleb, looking around the Bloated Cup, which is full of Revelry drunkenly celebrating a successful trial, particularly one that resulted in bloodshed. “Me neither.”

At least Fjord seems to be enjoying himself, or at least putting up a very good appearance of doing so. The four loyal crew of the _Tide’s Breath_ – Divastiss, the ship surgeon, who has curly brown hair and blue tattoos that spiral over his body in fantastic glyphs; Maken, another halfling with dark hair and broad teeth filed into shark-like points; Emi, a short, wiry, brown-haired and brown-skinned human woman; and Blue the powder monkey and swabbie, a girl no older than Caleb was when he left for the Soltryce Academy, her black hair shorn close to her scalp – surround him, each looking up at Fjord with a measure of respect. “To our captain,” says Fjord, raising his tankard.

“Aye,” says Divastiss. “To our captain, may he rest in peace.” He clinks his mug to Fjord’s, and the other three add in their cups as well.

Blue eyes him with the armor-piercing gaze that only a teenage girl can muster. “Does that mean you’re the captain now?”

A brownish tint blooms on Fjord’s cheeks, and he looks away, grimacing. “Acting captain, maybe, but we need to have a proper vote –”

“Well, we’re all here, aren’t we?” Divastiss gestures at the five of them, with a glance over at Caleb and the others. Molly waltzes back from acquiring another round, dropping into his seat and setting the tankards down with a slosh of alcohol over the rims; Nott reaches over the edge of the table to grab her drink. “And Widogast, and…” His voice trails off as he looks over Yasha and her dour expression and the muscles bulging under her gray leathers, and peacock-tattooed Molly. “Those two also?”

“Yup,” says Fjord.

Divastiss frowns, and neither Maken nor Emi look particularly happy. “He killed Nahra,” says Maken, pointing accusingly at Molly, who grimaces. “She _stabbed_ you!” He gestures at Yasha, who winces and draws back.

Sighing, Fjord fiddles with his tankard, saying, “I know, I needed all the allies I could get.”

“Yeah, but now you have _us_.” Emi jabs her thumb at her own chest. “Captain.”

“For the record,” says Molly, “I like to think that by testifying in court against Avantika, I proved my loyalty pretty well –”

“They’re with me now,” says Fjord, in a tone that brooks no argument, and Emi subsides under his glare. “They’ve proven themselves, and like I said, I need allies. We all do.”

Grumbling, Divastiss acquiesces. “Then why not vote, right here, right now. All those in favor of Captain Fjord Stone, say aye.”

Maken, Emi, and Blue all immediately raise their cups. “Aye!”

“What?” says Molly. “Fjord, captain?” His speech blurs a little around the consonants.

“Yeah!” Nott bangs her mug on the table, chanting, “Captain Fjord! Captain Fjord!”

Fjord’s blush deeps. “Now, I ain’t –”

“It suits you,” says Caleb, fixing his gaze on Fjord, and is rewarded with the honest flash of Fjord’s eyes up to his, that flicker of ambition that Fjord won’t admit to the others. “I say aye.”

“I say aye, as well,” adds Yasha quietly. “I am – I don’t really know where to go now, from here. But I will go with you.”

Divastiss smacks the flat of his hand on the table. “Then there you have it. Captain.” And he raises his mug in a toast.

Not breaking eye contact with Fjord, Caleb raises his tankard. “Here is to fucking making it work,” he says.

Recognition glimmers in Fjord’s eyes. “Cheers.”

“Congratulations on being alive,” and Caleb brings the cup to his lips, taking a long, slow drink of ale. When he drains the tankard, he sets it down on the table, gets to his feet, and leaves the Bloated Cup.

After the warmth and crowds of the tavern, the damp night air is welcome on Caleb’s face, and he tilts his head up to the stars, the scattering of silvery light becoming visible as his eyes adjust to the dark. Something coils, restless and unsettled, in his stomach – he’s not sure what he wants, or why, now that he’s been pulled out into the night. Across the street, a pirate loops his arm around the waist of a lady of the night as she laughs raucously, acquiescing.

Caleb snaps his fingers idly, making little sparks dance around him like fireflies. As he sifts through memories of the past week, what comes to mind is those horrific five minutes on the deck of the _Tide’s Breath,_ watching Fjord crumple to the bloody planks, and the raw surge of energy that was at Caleb’s command for a moment. The last time he felt power sing through him like that was. Well. Equally as terrible a time, if for different reasons. But what, Caleb thinks, watching the embers softly glimmer on his fingers, would it be like to control that kind of magic on his _own_ terms, not in a moment of desperation or under the machinations of another –

The door to the tavern opens, spilling yellow light and laughter and songs out into the night. “Caleb?” says Fjord.

Looking up, Caleb snaps out the fire and smiles. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Fjord glances back at the Bloated Cup and then at Caleb, dark hair falling in his eyes, a smile curling one side of his mouth. “Come with me,” he says. “Got somethin’ I want to show you.”

“Show me what?” says Caleb, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Just a neat little place I know. C’mon.”

Caleb follows Fjord through Darktow in the opposite direction from the docks, leaving the town center behind for scattered bungalows and homesteads, penned goats bedded down for the night alongside garden plots. These soon drop away too, as does the road, and Fjord leads Caleb on a path through the gradually-thickening vegetation, the leaves brushing Caleb as he pushes through them. The half-moon above casts just enough light to see by. “We are heading into the jungle?” says Caleb.

“Not really, just skirtin’ around it,” says Fjord. “We’ll be there in a bit.”

Cicadas hum in the trees, the night air warm and humid but not oppressive. Though still bemused, Caleb does not ask Fjord any more questions, not wanting to break the hush that hangs around the two of them. And Fjord seems content to lead without explanation, taking them on a winding route through the trees by markers familiar only to him.

After about fifteen more minutes of walking, the tree line breaks and Fjord and Caleb come out onto a small cove, secluded between two high cliffs of dark rock. Far out to sea, foamy waves gleam white, but on the sandy beach itself the waves lap as gentle as a lake. “It’s very calm,” says Caleb quietly.

“See the reefs, out there?” Fjord points at the waves breaking in the distance. “The big swells break on them before they get here. Makes it real peaceful.” He sighs, gazing out across the water. “I like to come out here just to get away from it all, clear my head. It’s a nice little swimming spot, not too many people know about it or bother to come out here, I think.” He steps forward, boots sinking into the pale sand slightly, and starts taking off his long coat.

Peaceful is the right word for it, Caleb thinks, with the shelter of the high cliffs and the far-out reefs, and the light of the moon and stars glimmering on the rippling sea. “Going for a swim now?”

“Yeah,” says Fjord, with a sigh like a man putting down a heavy load, draping his coat over a low-hanging tree branch. “When you can get out there in the water and just float, it’s – it’s the nicest thing there is.” He bends down to unbuckle his boots, kicking those off as well.

It does sound nice, Caleb thinks. “I have been swimming, but never in the ocean before,” he says. “Most of the Empire is pretty landlocked.”

Fjord emerges from pulling off his shirt and smiles at Caleb, muscles in his back and shoulders rippling. “Well, you should try it then.”

He continues stripping down to his smallclothes with a lack of self-consciousness that Caleb envies, though he supposes Fjord doesn’t have a lot to be self-conscious about, half-healed scar in his stomach notwithstanding. Though slimmer than the typical half-orcs Caleb has seen, Fjord is wiry with the lean muscles of a sailor, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the lines of his physique highlighted silver by the moonlight. Caleb feels a stab of shame for his own scrawny body and the many scars crisscrossing his forearms, and once again the nasty voice in his mind pipes up, _Why would he ever pick someone like_ you?

Fjord steps into the water, up to his waist, where he abruptly stops and yelps. “Saltwater stings,” he explains with a rueful grin back at Caleb. “You comin’ in?”

“Ja,” says Caleb, and takes off his coat. The allure of the calm water under the warm night is stronger than his own self-disgust; he’s had to live with himself for a while, now. His self-revulsion doesn’t quite have the same sting in the face of a moonlit swim. He takes off his boots as well, and scarf, and shirt, and pants, and smallclothes, and then comes to the bandages wrapped around his arms. Sighing, Caleb stares down at the pale fabric encircling his wrists and forearms, dull panic fluttering in his chest.

Stop it, he tells himself, in Zemnian. You’re being a fool.

He unwinds the bandages.

The scars on his skin don’t stand out quite so badly as they did in his memory, faint silvery lines marking both sides of his forearms. Caleb lets out a deep breath, checks his protective amulet is still secure around his neck, and walks down to the water. The sand is smooth under his feet, the occasional twig or dead leaf pricking his soles.

Now floating idly in water up to his shoulders, Fjord glances up as Caleb enters the ocean. The water is extremely pleasant around his ankles and calves, cool but not cold, and Caleb gets to about hip-deep before sinking in and turning onto his back, staring up at the stars flung across the sky as the water carries him. “It’s really tranquil, isn’t?” says Fjord, content.

Caleb sighs, letting his arms and legs hang limp. The vault of the sky stretches up infinitely far, hemmed in only by the black edges of the jungle and the cliffs, and the gentle rocking of the ocean cradles him. “Oh, it’s quite nice.”

“You seem very at home in the water, I’m surprised.”

Turning to look at him, Caleb cocks a wry eyebrow, and Fjord elaborates, “A lot of people are very trepidatious in the face of a force of nature like this.”

“Ah.” Caleb looks back up at the sky. “No, it’s expansive, it just keeps going forever.”

A long moment passes, and another, sounds muffling intermittently as Caleb’s ears dip below water. “It suits you very well,” says Fjord, in a soft, almost admiring voice.

His tone is so unlike anything Caleb’s heard before from him that Caleb sits up with a quiet splash, damp hair clinging to his neck. Fjord drifts a foot or so away from him, his eyes dark and intent. “Why did you bring me here?” says Caleb quietly.

Fjord frowns, tilting his head. “Well, it’s a nice place, and I figured after all the shit we’ve been through we deserved a bit of a break –”

Not what Caleb meant. Recalibrating. “What do you want from me?” he asks, calmly. It’s not a demand. He just needs to know what Fjord expects.

“Caleb, I don’t – I don’t want anythin’ _from_ you,” says Fjord, with a bemused half-laugh. “I just want to be _with_ you.” He looks a little startled by his own admission.

Caleb’s laugh is a brittle, bitter thing that breaks against the rippling water. “No one has wanted to be with me for a very, very long time, so you will forgive me if I do not immediately believe that.”

A brief, pained look crosses Fjord’s face before he moves in, water splashing quietly as he raises a hand to cradle Caleb’s face, his fingers rough and wet. “Darlin’, you take all the time you need,” he says, and leans in.

But Caleb draws back slightly, just enough to keep the distance between them. “Last time, you did not want to kiss me because of Avantika,” he says, ignoring the sudden racing of his heart. “I do not want you kissing me out of pity.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” says Fjord, and this time when he pulls Caleb back in for the kiss, Caleb lets him.

Fjord tastes like the sea, lips cool and salty and a little worn, the nubs of his regrowing tusks pressing up slightly. His hand slides over Caleb’s jaw, fingers curling in Caleb’s wet hair, and under the water Caleb dares to place a hand on Fjord’s chest, sliding over firm muscle to rest where he feels Fjord’s heart pounding as hard as his own. Their knees bump together, Caleb’s ankle brushing Fjord’s calf, and as Caleb sinks deeper into the kiss, the restlessness in his gut unfurls into something deeper and hungrier.

They drift in the ocean for a little while, Caleb losing himself to the press of Fjord’s lips against his and his bare skin against Fjord’s and the way Fjord’s breath gradually deepens and roughens. Not knowing Fjord’s comfort level, Caleb tries to keep his attentions relatively chaste, but it becomes harder and harder to ignore Fjord’s almost- and his own nudity, the gentle pressure of Fjord’s thumb on Caleb’s throat drawing his groin tight. “How far were you intending to go with this?” Caleb asks, a little hoarse. “Tonight.”

Fjord sighs, their faces close enough that Caleb can feel the exhale on his skin. His hand skates over Caleb’s ribs, sending a thrill up his spine. “I think I’d like to take things slow,” says Fjord, and his gaze meets Caleb’s, unadulteratedly honest. “If you don’t mind.”

Take things slow. That means Fjord means for this to continue beyond tonight. Caleb exhales shakily, insides clenching with equal parts apprehension and hope. “I, uh,” he says, and has to clear his throat. “Sure. Sure, Fjord.”

Fjord’s slow answering smile makes Caleb’s chest tighten with giddy lightness. “All right,” he says, easy and warm as molasses, and kisses Caleb again.

How long they stay there in the tranquil ocean under the stars, Caleb loses track of to the rhythm of their lips together and the slide of Fjord’s hands over his skin. Eventually, though, he begins to shiver, the skin on his fingers wrinkled and withered. “We should probably return,” murmurs Caleb. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

Fjord sighs, his forehead dropping to Caleb’s shoulder for a moment before he pulls back. “Yeah,” he says, and starts making his way back to shore. Dripping wet, Caleb follows, but as they walk back to their clothes he manages to conjure up a little fire to dry them off, at least somewhat. “Thanks,” says Fjord, with a smile, pulling his shirt back on.

But as Caleb gets dressed, the weight of one more secret presses on him. “My name is not Caleb Widogast,” he says abruptly, lacing shut his pants.

Halfway through buckling his belt, Fjord freezes, staring at him. “What?”

“My real name is Bren Aldric Ermendrud.” Caleb says each syllable carefully, like they might bite him, studiously not looking at Fjord and instead focusing on rewrapping his arms. “Caleb Widogast is just an alias. I am not – I have not used Bren for a while.”

“Since you went on the run, you mean,” says Fjord with quiet understanding, and Caleb is profoundly grateful that he doesn’t have to explain further. “Do you… do you want me to call you that, then?”

It’s not something Caleb needs to think about. “No, I have not been Bren for a very long time,” he says. Tying off a bandage, he finally looks up at Fjord, who watches him with a depth of empathy that Caleb doesn’t deserve. “I just wanted you to know. Before tomorrow. In case something happens.”

Nodding, Fjord exhales slowly. “Understood.”

“Thank you.” Caleb nods back, wanting to close the distance between them again but achingly unsure how. “Then let’s go.”

\--

Fjord startles awake in the darkness of his and Caleb’s room at the Bloated Cup, one hand going to the knife under his pillow. But no sound or motion breaks the stillness, and after a tense few moments, Fjord relaxes back into the thin mattress. Must have just been a random noise that woke him, he thinks, as his heart gradually resumes its normal pace. He should fall back asleep…

Across the room from him, Caleb groans in his sleep, saying something in Zemnian Fjord doesn’t understand.

“Caleb,” hisses Fjord. “Caleb! Wake up!”

But Caleb only groans again, and in the dim light Fjord can see him twisting uncomfortably on his bed, blanket tangled around him. After a moment of hesitation, Fjord slides out of bed and crosses to kneel beside him, sliding a hand alongside Caleb’s face to try and ease his tossing and turning. Caleb’s skin under his touch is slick with sweat, and almost burning hot. “Easy, easy, Cay,” he says. “It’s just a nightmare.”

“No,” says Caleb, so clearly Fjord jumps, thinking he’s awake after all. “Nein, Meister, bitte, ich will nicht, mach mich nicht, _bitte –_ ” His fingers wrap around Fjord’s wrist, gripping tight.

The ragged desperation in his voice sends chills down Fjord’s spine, and he has a pretty good guess who _Meister_ might be. “Caleb,” he says, low and steady, and gives his shoulder a little shake. “Hey. Come on now. Wake up. You’re with me.”

Caleb’s eyes fly open and he gasps, sweaty chest heaving under his open shirt, throat straining as he swallows. “Easy there,” murmurs Fjord, pushing back a lock of Caleb’s tangled hair. “It’s all right now.” He hardly knows what to say, just anything to relieve the wild terror in Caleb’s eyes. “It’s over.”

“Fjord?” Caleb’s voice rasps in the darkness, his hand fisting tight around Fjord’s sleeve. His other hand gropes at his neck for the amulet, and when he finds it, Caleb slumps back into the pillow. “Ah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Fjord thinks maybe he should draw back, give Caleb a little space, but the way Caleb hangs tight to his sleeve tells a different story. Instead, Fjord strokes his thumb over Caleb’s temple, smoothing away another sweaty strand of hair. “Those night terrors are a bitch.”

A hoarse, breathless attempt at a laugh escapes Caleb. “Ja, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

The great yellow eye, watching, _waiting_ , and the dark water all around him. “Maybe a little,” says Fjord. “Not quite the same.”

Caleb sighs and closes his eyes, and his grip on Fjord’s sleeve loosens, but he keeps his hand still cupped around Fjord’s arm. “Maybe not,” he admits.

Despite Fjord’s knee starting to ache from digging into the floorboards, he stays, as long as Caleb holds onto him, watching Caleb’s breathing gradually gentle and occasionally giving his shoulder a rub. Caleb looks very fragile right now, his eyelashes long against his pale and sweaty cheeks, dark hairs spiderwebbed on his forehead, and the orc in Fjord growls a long, internal growl of staking his claim.

Eventually, Caleb opens his eyes again, and says, still hoarse, “You should go back to sleep.” He gives Fjord’s arm a little pat. “You know. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” and Fjord can’t help leaning in and giving Caleb a kiss, Caleb’s lips warm against his, his stubble scratchy – still a marvel to Fjord, that he can _do_ this, and he tries to squash any worries about bruising Caleb’s lips with his tusks. He’ll need to file them again soon. “You too. Sleep well, Caleb.”

Caleb snorts, eyes closed again. “You too.”

As Fjord lays back down on his own bed, drawing the blanket over him, he catches a flash of pink-purple magic as Caleb’s cat appears, curling up on Caleb’s chest and making a quiet rumbling noise. Fjord’s nose itches, but he dutifully ignores it, instead curling up on his side. And soon he falls asleep again, and does not wake until morning.


	14. Act V, Scene 1

The _Black Dragon_ towers over the other ships in the harbor, double rows of cannons bristling from her tar-blackened hull, a pair of great black wings emblazoned on the foresail. Fjord gazes up at the warship from within her shadow, and if he said he kind of wanted a ship like that… well, he wouldn’t be lying.

Heavy bootsteps sound on the boards behind him. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she,” rumbles the Plank King, looking up at the ship admiringly. He wears his black wig again, and the blue velvet coat; an elegant, jeweled longsword hangs from his belt. A cohort of guards and other aides trail behind him. “Back when I was a lad, living on the other land across the sea, our herd briefly served under the black dragon Umbrasyl.” He pauses, brow furrowing. “In the end, it did us more harm than good, but I still remember the sight of that magnificent beast coming down for the first time. Seemed to blot out half the sky, it did.”

A small, slightly bloodstained bag hangs from a leather cord around the Plank King’s neck, just the right size to hold a round crystal orb. Fjord quickly looks back up at the ship. The rising sun tints the sky rosy pink.

“Come on,” rumbles the Plank King, and begins striding towards the gangplank. “Time’s a-wasting.”

Fjord glances back at his skeleton crew standing a little ways off, all watching him with varying degrees of apprehension. “Your Majesty,” he says quickly, before the Plank King can pass by too far. “May I take some of my crew along with me?”

Snorting, the Plank King pauses. “No. Just ye and Widogast.”

Fighting the rising panic to keep his voice steady, Fjord says, “Sir, we’re headin’ into a dangerous situation, and I would feel vastly more comfortable if I knew I had someone to watch my back –”

The Plank King glowers down at him with piercing blue-white eyes, and Fjord lifts his chin, determined to stand his ground. “Pick one,” he says gruffly, and resumes his progress towards the _Black Dragon_.

Blowing out a heavy breath, Fjord rejoins his crew. The only one not here is Caleb, although he’d reassured Fjord he’d join them all shortly as they left the tavern, and Fjord forces himself to trust on that. “So?” says Maken, glancing nervously after the Plank King and then back to Fjord. “What’d he say?”

“One of you can come with me,” sighs Fjord, knowing the crew will object.

They do.

“What? That’s bullshit!” snaps Emi. “After everything that’s happened –”

“You _can’t_!” Blue stomps her foot on the ground. “They’ll really kill you –”

“Glad you have such a high assessment of my survival skills,” grumbles Fjord, though he can’t help but be secretly heartwarmed by the loyal outburst.. “No, look, listen. Just one of you, all right? The rest…” Casting his gaze over the crew, he comes to Divastiss. “’Vasti. I’m makin’ you quartermaster. If I don’t come back, the _Tide’s Breath_ is yours.”

Divastiss’ blue eyes widen. “Captain, I can’t – I couldn’t possibly –”

“I’m askin’ you to,” says Fjord quietly. “I need to know I’m leavin’ my ship and crew in hands I can trust.”

Squaring his shoulders, Divastiss draws himself up to his full halfling height. “Aye aye, Captain.”

And when it comes to who he wants with him when things go sour, there’s really only one option. “You,” says Fjord, pointing to Yasha. “You’re comin’ with me.”

(It doesn’t escape his notice, how the only members of the crew to survive were two halflings, a small human, a literal child, and a traitor. How anyone remotely a physical threat was cut down.)

Yasha nods, solid as a brick wall. “All right,” she says. “Am I – is it just in case things go wrong, that you want me there?”

“Yeah, pretty much, I need backup in case things go sideways and it’s too much for me and Caleb.” Rising up on his tiptoes, Fjord cranes his neck to see down the nearby streets. “Which speakin’ of, where _is_ he –”

Unfortunately, however, another redhead approaches: Avantika, flanked and held by guards, her wrists bound tightly not only to each other but to a chain around her waist, bloodstained bandages covering the stump of her right hand. “So you are Captain Fjord now, huh?” she calls as she approaches, with a wild-eyed malice. “Maybe I really was right about Vandran standing in your way!”

Red anger pulses in Fjord’s vision and he lunges forward, grabbing his knife. But Yasha throws an arm out, catching him across the chest, and though Fjord growls and pushes into her she doesn’t budge. “Don’t,” says Yasha quietly. “She’s not worth it.” Her mouth hardens with something between anger, grief, and disgust.

“Yeah?” shouts Avantika over her shoulder at Yasha, as the guards continue marching her towards the ship. “Well, neither were you!”

“Hey, fuck you!” Molly shouts back.

Yasha pointedly lets go of Fjord. “Never mind, you can go after her.”

“Nah.” Taking a deep breath, Fjord cools himself. “She’s got it coming to her.”

Thankfully, at this point Caleb approaches, puffing slightly as he hurries to join Fjord. A sparrowhawk sits on his shoulder, feathers barred tawny and black. “Let’s go,” mutters Caleb, hastily tying off a bandage around his wrist, locks of hair escaping his ponytail. Fjord can feel the nervous energy from five feet away.

Turning back to Divastiss, Fjord says, “Look after the ship, Quartermaster.”

Divastiss nods, and though he maintains a stoic face, worry creases the skin around his eyes. “Come back soon, Captain.”

Fjord checks the long knife at his belt, making sure it slides easily in the sheath. “Will do.” He turns and strides towards the _Black Dragon,_ Caleb at his side, Yasha close behind. The wind ruffles Fjord’s hair as he climbs up the gangplank, coming on deck to face the Plank King. The massive goliath nods once, assessing Fjord, Caleb, and Yasha, and then turns to bellow at his quartermaster, “Make sail!”

The _Black Dragon_ is so big two longboats tow her away from the doc, crewmembers grunting and straining on the oars to bring it out into open water. As the crew unfurls the sails, climbing up and down the massive masts and web of rigging, Fjord admires the grace and ease of their work. This is a crew that knows their ship, and knows her well, and longing strikes Fjord’s heart.

With the wind in her sails, the _Black Dragon_ charges across sapphire sea, heading out towards open ocean as the sun slowly rises, the sky tinting from gold to pale blue. Frumpkin launches off of Caleb’s shoulder, spiraling upwards until he’s higher than the crow’s nest. “Where do you think we are going?” asks Yasha quietly.

The only thing Fjord knows is in this direction is the edge of the map. “Dunno.”

When Darktow is only a smudge on the horizon, the Plank King calls for the sails to be furled. The _Black Dragon_ slows her gallop, waves splashing against her hull; standing near the mast, Fjord glances at Caleb and Yasha beside him. Caleb’s face is set, one hand at his spell pouch at the ready, and Yasha turns to Fjord and gives him a nod.

“Avantika!” bellows the Plank King from the bow of the ship. “Come forward.”

With the impetus of a shove from her guards, Avantika walks up to him, chin held high, the wind whipping at her orange-red curls. Standing two heads taller than her, the Plank King gestures out at the wide open sea with one hand, and with the other yanks the leather bag from his neck, snapping the cord. He pulls out the crystal, the yellow orb winking in the sunlight between his broad finger and thumb, and Fjord catches his breath against the sudden urge to lunge forward and seize it from him.

“So,” rumbles the Plank King, and turns towards the prow, raising the crystal up. “Uk’atoa!” he bellows. “I’ve got somethin’ of yours, and I stand before ye as a willing servant, ready to do your will!”

The crew on deck stands, waiting, and the waves splash against the hull, and the sun shines down on them. “Uk’atoa!” roars the Plank King again. Once again, no response, and he snorts like an angry bull. “Ye call him,” he orders Avantika, and pushes her forward.

At Fjord’s left elbow, Caleb sucks in a quick breath. “What?” murmurs Fjord, not daring to look away from what’s happening on the bow.

“This is not going to go well,” mutters Caleb. With a flurry of feathers, Frumpkin lands back on his shoulder, wings still half-raised. “He shouldn’t have brought her –”

Avantika walks slowly forward to the point of the bow. “Uk’atoa!” she calls. “Hear me! One of your chosen, I call to you for aid –”

With sudden suspicion, the Plank King rounds on her, but Avantika jumps back to the railing. “Now, hang on –”

Maimed arm clutched to her chest, Avantika nimbly vaults over the railing to balance on the bowsprit with elven agility, stepping back foot over foot, her hair rippling red against the blue sky. Fjord exclaims wordlessly, starting forward with a hand on his knife. “You should have been smarter!” Avantika calls, walking backwards along the bowsprit, a wild gleam in her eyes. “But you let your desire for power blind you, huh?”

“Shoot her!” roars the Plank King, his hand clenched around the orb.

Crossbow bolts streak through the air, but too late to meet Avantika as she backflips off the bowsprit and dives into the ocean.

It takes Fjord’s brain a second to catch up to his feet, already sprinting forward before he knows why. He comes up to the rail alongside the Plank King, peering down into the blue depths of the ocean, where only a dissipating circle of bubbles indicates where Avantika plunged in. “Damn bitch,” growls the Plank King, and his fist around the orb tightens again. “At least she left this behind –”

A wave of ocean water rises up and crashes over the deck, bowling Fjord over and sweeping him across the planks. He splutters, drenched in saltwater, his knife knocked out of his hands and skidding away. The Plank King sprawls on the deck as well, wig a sodden mat behind him, as does half the crew and Yasha and Caleb and Fjord scrabbles to grab his knife as a figure rises out of the sea on a tongue of water –

Avantika’s hair hangs lank and dripping around her face, blue-grey scales emerging slick along her skin through the rents in her drenched clothes. Her yellow eyes are two wide orbs in her skull like a deep sea creature, and as her mouth splits and widens like a flower with rows of needle-sharp along the sides, she _screams._

Pain racks Fjord’s skull, stabbing in like iron spikes through his temples, and he clutches the sides of his head, curling in on himself. For an eternal, terrible moment he is blind and deaf to everything except the pain, the pain, the pain…

Panting, dripping wet, Fjord comes back to himself as a host of fish-people-monsters climb up over the rail and onto the deck of the _Black Dragon._

Fjord shouts, skull still throbbing as he grabs for his knife, other crew picking themselves up and scrambling for weapons. But the dripping slimy creatures lunge forward faster than he can stand –

With a hoarse cry in a language Fjord can’t understand, Caleb drives the blade of his hand across his palm, fingers yellow with phosphorus. Fire bursts forth along the deck of the ship, flames roaring into a twenty-foot wall between the pirates and the sea spawn, the heat blasting Fjord. “Caleb!” he shouts, awed.

Above them, Frumpkin screeches, wings flapping furiously. Caleb staggers to his feet, wet hair hanging in his face, as the fire rips along the deck, curving around to encircle the pirates on the other side as well. With a bellow, the Plank King rolls out of the way just in time, coming to his feet with his longsword drawn. “Weapons at the ready!” he yells at his crew.

A sea spawn leaps through the flames at Fjord, skin blistering, and he rolls and slashes across its hamstrings. It collapses with a screech and Fjord pivots to his feet before driving his knife into the base of its skull. Smoke and the scent of burning tar fills the air, and Fjord lungs aside as another sea spawn staggers through the wall of fire, red burns covering its skin. This one falls to the silver sweep of Yasha’s sword, other fish people screaming and grappling with pirates –

Above the rippling flames, another wave rises through the smoke, bearing Avantika on it. Caleb’s long coat whips around as he slashes a hand through the air, violet magic bursting outward, and the wave bursts into a fine spray, sending Avantika tumbling onto the deck on the other side of the fire.

Fjord races forward, dodging one of the Plank King’s crew grappling furiously with a squidlike person, fixed on Avantika just visible through the fire. Another sea spawn screams and writhes in the flames, slimy skin bubbling, and the heat radiates like the sun on Fjord. But it glows orange like all of Caleb’s other magicks, and Fjord thinks about Caleb’s lips hot on his own and his skin hot on his own and he takes a deep breath and plunges through. “Fjord!” shouts Caleb, distant.

The heat is terrible and he smells his clothes singing but there’s no pain, and Fjord sprints and leaps forward to tackle Avantika as she staggers to her feet. But his knife doesn’t make purchase in her torso, instead dragging across her side, and with a screech she rolls and slams Fjord into the deck, a barnacle-encrusted blade appearing in her left hand out of nowhere.

Fjord grabs her wrist before she can swing down, her weight bearing into him, and pulls a knee back to kick Avantika solidly in the torso, ignoring the stab of pain in his gut. She grunts, doubling over, and Fjord shoves her away so he can scramble back to his feet. “Come on!” he roars at Avantika, and brandishes his knife.

A second too late, he realizes her reach with the sword is greater than his, and as he jumps back from her swing, melting pitch sticks at his feet. He dodges another swipe, a third cutting across his leather jerkin, the railing of the ship perilously close behind –

When Avantika lifts her sword high again to strike, this time Fjord lunges in, right arm raised. His forearm collides with hers with a shock of bone against bone, forcing her sword above his head, and Fjord grabs Avantika by her throat. Her skin is cold and slimy under his hand, and she hisses. Fjord headbutts her, blow dulled by his thick half-orc skull.

She shrieks again, and Fjord drops his knife to grab her wrist and twist her arm around, ducking behind Avantika so he has control of her outstretched sword arm, his shoulder pressed into hers. Avantika grunts and bucks her hips back into his in a horrible parody of intimacy, and Fjord wheezes with the blow to his groin but hangs onto her wrist like grim death. “You shouldn’t have killed my captain,” he growls into her ear, yanking his other arm around her throat and up under her chin. Her stump arm flails at him, trying futilely to pry him off.

“ _His death was inevitable,_ ” she spits out, barely intelligible through her mouth full of needle teeth.

“Well then, so is yours,” and Fjord twists her arm around and drives the sword deep into her side.

Avantika screams and chokes as the blade sinks in, Fjord wrenching it as much as he can. Her knees buckle and Fjord lets her fall to the deck, dark blood gurgling out of the rent in her side, the sword still in his hand.

Gasping for air, Avantika stares up at him with wide eyes. Wide green eyes. The fish fades from her features, and Avantika coughs, blood filling her mouth. “Fjord,” she manages, fear on her face, and reaches out a shaking hand. “Please.”

The flames roar and crackle all around Fjord, smoke and salt filling his nostrils, all sound faint and far away except for the pounding of his own heart.

_“Fjord!” shouts Captain Vandran, naked fear on his face, right before Avantika slits his throat –_

Swinging the sword down, Fjord drives it right through Avantika’s heart until it meets the resistance of the boards below.

She hunches in in shock, blood flying from her mouth, and then collapses back, limp. With a final twitch, Avantika grows still, her eyes wide open and glassy, the curved blade of the barnacle sword embedded in her chest. Fjord slowly straightens, breathing hard, vaguely aware of his own hands shaking, sweat rolling down his cheeks. He waits for a sense of satisfaction, of retribution, anything.

All he can think is how very dead she looks.

Slowly, Fjord turns, and as he does a glittering yellow crystal rolls out of the fire, towards the railing.

 _CONSUME_.

Dropping the sword, Fjord throws himself on his stomach to try and catch the orb, his fingers millimeters away, hot pitch burning his skin. He makes another grab, but as he does a massive booted foot comes down heavy on top of the orb.

Fjord cranes his neck to look up at the Plank King, who stands heedless of the flames smoldering in his blue velvet coat. “Sorry, lad,” he rumbles, and draws a short knife from his belt. “But this was never yours to claim.” His eyes bore into Fjord’s, hypnotic, freezing him in place, Fjord’s breath catching in his chest –

Holding his other hand open, the Plank King slices deep into his palm, baring his teeth in pain as he creates a deep gash in the meat of his hand. Blood drips to sizzle on the deck as the Plank King kneels, picking up the orb from under his foot, and then jams it into the cut in his hand. With a heavy groan, the Plank King closes his fist around it, knuckles whitening as crimson blood runs down his wrist and arm, and his nostrils flare. Slowly, Fjord sits up and begins to back away; as he does, the Plank King opens his hand again, the skin of his palm smooth and unbroken, and the orb nowhere to be seen.

The Plank King frowns. “Huh?”

Fjord swallows hard, heart hammering again, the healing wound in his torso throbbing. “Sir –”

With a sudden roar of agony, the Plank King drops to both knees, clutching at his forehead. He screams and bellows, smearing blood across his face to mingle with a fresh trickle as the skin in the center of his forehead splits, the yellow crystal emerging so perfectly between his tattoos they might have been designed around it. And when he opens his eyes again, they too are golden yellow and slit-pupiled.

Frozen in place half-kneeling, Fjord holds his breath. The crackling and roaring of fire surrounds him, flames licking up to burn the masts and sails, and he can still hear the shrieks and yells of pirates battling sea spawn. Massive chest heaving, the Plank King feels over the orb in his forehead with blunt fingers, and then stares out over the ocean with dull shock. “Enough of this,” he mutters, clambering to his feet, and makes a sweeping gesture that ends in a closed fist.

Water surges up and over the _Black Dragon,_ submerging Fjord and extinguishing the flames, and as he tumbles across the deck again he catches a glimpse of Avantika’s body being swept into the sea. With a heavy thud Fjord slams up against the base of the mast and he holds tight to it against the rushing water. As it subsides, he comes up coughing, mouth and nose full of brine.

Across the deck, other pirates pick themselves up again, soaked for a second time, nothing left of the flames except a wide burnt scar in the deck. His wide back to all of them and the blue sea beyond, the Plank King turns Avantika’s sword over in his hand, water dripping off the blade.

Sopping wet, with seaweed hanging off her hair and blood welling from a scrape on her cheek, Yasha kneels beside Fjord. “Are you all right?”

Fjord spits out seawater and sits up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m –” He looks around for Caleb and can’t find him, sudden panic hitting his chest. “Where’s Caleb?”

Frowning, Yasha cranes her neck to look around the pirates slowly stand up. Several remain on the deck, either writhing in pain or completely motionless. “He was over there…”

“Caleb!” shouts Fjord, staggering to his feet. None of the bleeding bodies on the deck are him, thank the gods, but if Caleb lies dead somewhere else, if he was swept off the deck, if one of the sea monsters dragged him back down into the depths – “ _Caleb!_ ”

Several other pirates glance curiously at him as Fjord frantically scans the deck of the ship, both hoping and dreading finding Caleb among the bodies. He doesn’t see him at first, but as he rounds towards the stern, he catches sight of a pale outflung hand and bedraggled ginger hair from underneath a jumble of ropes and barrels swept against the wall of the quarterdeck.

Ice sweeps Fjord’s body and he sprints over, heaving aside the barrel that has Caleb wedged in. Throwing himself to his knees, Fjord drags Caleb’s limp body free, his head lolling back and clothes drenched. “Ah no no no, c’mon, Cay, don’t do this,” mutters Fjord, tilting Caleb’s slack face up. His eyes are closed, and Fjord fumbles for a pulse at his throat. For five, horrible long seconds, nothing, and then a flutter like a dying bird, a rapid beat, and then nothing again.

“ _No,_ ” growls Fjord, and rolls Caleb over, pushing on his torso. Water dribbles out of Caleb’s mouth. He pushes down on his ribs again, and again, until nothing more ekes out. Flipping Caleb back onto his back, heedless of the pirates watching, Fjord bends down, pinches Caleb’s nose shut, and fits his mouth to his, exhaling deep into him. _Come on,_ he begs in his heart, breathing for Caleb, his heart pounding like a war drum. _Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, not now –_

With a sudden burst of spittle into Fjord’s mouth, Caleb coughs and coughs, body jerking. Fjord draws back as Caleb rolls over and hacks up foam onto the deck, hair tangled. “Easy, easy,” says Fjord, dizzy with relief, a hand on Caleb’s back as he holds himself up on his elbows. “You’re okay.”

Caleb coughs so hard he retches saltwater, shivering under Fjord’s hand, and fumbles at his neck for the amulet. When he finds it, he slumps and sighs. “Oh, scheiβe,” Caleb croaks, and spits. “Fjord?” His eyes are wide and blue in his pale face.

“Yeah, I got you.” Fjord knows the Plank King and his crew can see them. He knows Yasha stands over him and Caleb like a sentinel. He doesn’t care. “You’re all right.”

Slowly and shakily, Caleb sits up and back on his heels. His wrapped hand finds Fjord’s sleeve, fisting tight in the fabric. “You walked through fire,” he rasps, still wild-eyed. “I saw you.”

“Yeah, I…” For the first time, Fjord thinks to check himself from burns, and apart from some singe marks on his leathers and some stinging on his hands and forearms, he’s fine. “I figured, since it was your magic, it wouldn’t hurt me…”

Caleb swallows hard, his hand still clenched in Fjord’s sleeve. “That’s not how it works,” he manages, still hoarse. “It should have burned you.”

Breath sticking in his chest, Fjord stares back at him. “Well, I…”

“You walked through _fire_ ,” Caleb repeats, shaking him a little.

Fjord’s heart pounds unsteadily. “You _drowned._ ”

Caleb lunges forward at the same time that Fjord does, grabbing him tight in an embrace with one arm around his shoulders and the other gripping his back. Fjord holds Caleb as close to his chest as he can, tight enough to make Caleb grunt, one hand at the back of Caleb’s head. _Mine_ , he thinks, and growls, his hand tightening in Caleb’s waterlogged hair. _Ain’t nothin’ takin’ you away from me again._

Breath hot and shaky on Fjord’s neck and ear, Caleb grips clutches Fjord even tighter. “I thought you were gone,” he says, just loud enough for Fjord to hear. Fjord can feel his heart beating against his own.

Fjord sighs heavy and drops his head to Caleb’s shoulder. “So did I.”

“I hate to break up this touching scene,” drawls the Plank King from above them, “but it’s about time we set sail for home.”

Slowly, Fjord and Caleb draw apart, and Caleb gives Fjord the barest nod, the hint of a smile curling his lips. “Yeah,” says Fjord, and gets to his feet to face the Plank King, looking up into his face. Most of the blood is washed away, the yellow orb glittering in his forehead, and the curved sword hangs from his belt. “I reckon it is.”

The Plank King smiles, wide and triumphant. “Then let’s go.”


	15. Act V, Scene 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. Please check out this [_fantastic_ art by Monstyra ](https://monstyra.tumblr.com/post/621765350334316544/now-my-charms-are-all) of the cove scene from Act IV, Scene 5. Seriously, I can't stop looking at it. 
>   2. This chapter contains explicit sexual content.
> 


A tropical sun shines brightly down as Fjord strides up the gangplank onto the _Tide’s Breath._ Fresh paint gleams on her sides and rails, her newly-mended sails furled, crew hurrying back and forth as they load her hold with supplies. “Captain!” calls Divastiss, raising a hand as he turns from supervising the onloading of crates.

Fjord salutes back, half-smiling. “Quartermaster.” He watches as the crew does their work, evaluating; with half a dozen new hires from Darktow, he’s keen to make sure they haul their weight. But it looks like Divastiss is keeping them in step. Adjusting his rucksack over his shoulder, Fjord continues along the deck, sidestepping Nott as she rolls a powder keg over towards the open main hatch. “Careful!” he barks.

Grinning up at him, Nott says, “Aye aye, Captain!” and continues. “Look out below!”

She sends the keg flying through the hatch and Fjord winces, but no accompanying crash sounds. Crossing over, Fjord peers down to see Yasha, the keg cradled in her meaty arms. “Don’t worry,” she calls up at Fjord. “I got it!” And she sets the keg down handily.

“Don’t blow up my damn ship,” grumbles Fjord, but it doesn’t escape his notice that the perpetual somber cloud on Yasha’s face is gone. “You hear?”

A little stilted but entirely earnest, Yasha says, “Aye aye, Captain.” Nott has already scampered off to retrieve another barrel.

The dancing notes of a lute sound above Fjord, and he looks up to see Molly perched on one of the lower spars, one leg drawn up, the other dangling and his tail idly swishing as he plucks out a tune. “Captain,” he says, and continues playing, and Fjord nods to him. Though his heart lifts with the sun and the wind and the salt in the air, it’s bittersweet as he sees all the ghosts of those who walked the boards before, Nahra, Ingvas, Captain Vandran…

Nott returns, rolling another barrel, and Fjord notices a silver ring on her finger that he swears wasn’t there before, of a much finer make than anything else she wears. “That ring new?” Fjord asks.

“Yes! Oh, well, uh –” Glancing around, Nott draws up towards Fjord conspiratorially. “Ring of water walking, I stole it from Oppan before I left. You think I’d get on this _ship_ without it?” Her voice turns shrill with disgust and possibly panic.

Frowning, Fjord struggles to come up with a response, when a horribly familiar voice behind him says, “Fjo– I mean, Captain Fjord?”

Fjord slowly turns. Sabian stands there, dark hair braided back, his gaze darting from the planks up to Fjord and then back down again. The shadows of bruises discolor his cheek and eye socket, his lip healing from a split. “Can I talk to you?” he asks.

“No,” says Fjord, and turns away.

“Please!” Genuine desperation sounds in Sabian’s voice, and Fjord faces him again despite himself. “I know – I know you have every right to be mad at me, I’m sorry –”

Anger tightens Fjord’s chest, rising up into his throat. “Mad?” he growls, getting up close in Sabian’s face, and Sabian flinches back. “Mad don’t even _begin_ to cover it –”

Bringing his hands up in between himself and Fjord, Sabian stammers, “I-I-I know, I deserve it, I was – I was _scared_ , Avantika said she’d kill me if I didn’t – if I didn’t speak up for her –”

Eyes narrowed, Fjord considers, trying to see if Sabian’s lying. The consternation on his face looks real enough. Figures that Avantika would try and threaten someone into being a witness. Figures it would end up being a worthless coward like Sabian. “Okay,” says Fjord gruffly. “Then what do you want?”

Sabian takes a deep breath. “I want to rejoin the crew.”

A startled laugh bursts out of Fjord, bitter-edged, and several other crew stop what they’re doing to look at him. Molly is no longer playing his lute. “You fuckin’ _what_?”

“I want to rejoin the crew.” Sabian sets his shoulders, a hint of steel returning to his face. “I need work, and no one else will hire me, I’ve been branded as a traitor –”

“Yeah, because you fuckin’ are,” growls Fjord.

“ _I didn’t have a choice!_ ” Sabian’s eyebrows turn up pleadingly. “C’mon, Fjord, you – you wouldn’t just abandon me, not after all this time –”

Fjord raises his eyebrows. “See if I won’t.”

Not just desperation but fear begins to show in Sabian’s eyes. “No no no, come on, man, I just – look, I need to – what would Captain Vandran do?”

For a second, Fjord can’t think past the cold anger of Sabian invoking his name like that. “Captain?” says Maken, approaching with a knife in hand. “Want me to get rid of this yellowbelly _scum_?” He bares his pointed teeth. Sabian takes a step back, eyes darting nervously to him.

“I need to think about it,” says Fjord loftily, drawing himself together. “We ain’t shippin’ out for a couple days yet, why don’t you hang tight until then. Come back in a day or so.”

Sabian swallows hard, still glancing at the knife. “All right,” he says, and bobs his head in an approximation of a bow. “I’ll be back then.” With a last burning glance over his shoulder at Fjord, he hurries off the ship.

Exhaling heavily, Fjord watches him go, the black tail of Sabian’s braid swinging between his narrow shoulders. “Should’ve let me gut him,” complains Maken, and sheathes his knife.

“Don’t want blood on the deck, it’ll ruin the paint,” grumbles Fjord, and turns back towards the stern. As he crosses the deck, he glances up at the Throne Roost, an apprehensive shiver down his spine. He counts himself and his crew lucky that the Plank King is satisfied with one orb, for now, and in a good enough mood to let them sail free. He doubts this will be the end of the thread.

The door to the captain’s quarters is ajar. Fjord walks up slowly, pausing at the threshold as he enters for the first time since before that night he and Caleb went down to the Diver’s Grave. It looks… empty. Captain Vandran’s personal affects have been stripped out, his locked iron chest left open. Not even the little table that Vandran sat at, logging goods captured or plotting their next course, remains. As the ship rocks slightly with the tide, the squares of sunlight coming through the windows slide across the floor.

Fjord walks in slowly, his footsteps falling hollow on the wooden floor, the shouting from outside dim. A lump rises in Fjord’s throat, tears stinging his eyes, as he tries and fails to see any sign of Vandran. Even the faint smell of tobacco smoke that clung to his quarters is gone, replaced by the scent of sawdust and fresh paint. 

“Fjord?” says Caleb quietly, behind him.

“You see Sabian leavin’ the ship?” says Fjord, looking up at the ceiling and blinking back tears. “Damn son of a bitch wanted back on the crew, if you can believe it. Said it was what Captain Vandran would have wanted.” Fjord forces a disbelieving grin, shaking his head. “I ought to take him back just so I can keelhaul him.”

“Fjord,” says Caleb again, softer.

Fjord looks back at where Caleb stands in the doorway, his own satchel slung over his shoulder, the sunlight illuminating him from behind, and his cat wound around his ankles. Earnest sympathy tugs on his mouth and eyebrows, and the brittle shell Fjord was holding around himself breaks. “I – I can’t,” he admits, close to tears again. “I can’t, not without him here, he should be here –”

Closing the door behind him, Caleb steps forward and puts a hand behind Fjord’s head, bringing their foreheads together. Fjord closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath, and Caleb says nothing, only breathes with him. For a long moment they stand with each other, Fjord resting his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. The sunlight streaming through the windows warms the room, all sounds of the outside world muffled.

“I am with you,” murmurs Caleb, hoarse. His fingers curve around the back of Fjord’s neck.

Fjord swallows, his thumb rubbing along Caleb’s collar. “I can’t fathom why, but I appreciate it.”

Drawing back, Caleb frowns and takes Fjord’s face in both his hands. “You are a good guy, I think,” he says. “Those are not easily come by.”

Thinking about the fear in Avantika’s eyes as she begged him not to kill her, Fjord half-laughs. “You think so?”

Caleb smiles wryly, shrugging. “You are good to me, at least, and that is all that counts.” He kisses Fjord on the lips.

Chuckling, Fjord kisses him back, sliding one hand around Caleb’s narrow waist. “I aim to oblige,” he drawls, and kisses Caleb again. Pulling Caleb closer against him, he relishes the press of Caleb’s lips on his, the way their hips align, Caleb’s hands sliding down to cup his neck –

The moment is only broken by Frumpkin meowing insistently, round eyes locked on Caleb. “Hm?” says Caleb, breaking away to look down at his cat. “Oh. Ja. You probably have business you need to attend to, Captain.”

“Oh, do I,” sighs Fjord, gazing around the empty captain’s quarters. “You can, uh – ‘Vasti is takin’ the quartermaster’s cabin, so I think that leaves his bunk in the galley open, if you want –”

Caleb half-smiles, not worried. “I will figure it out.” A frown crosses his face, and he pauses. “You said Sabian wanted to rejoin the crew?”

God, yeah, Fjord had nearly forgotten about that little bastard. “Yeah, says he can’t find work on any other ship since he’s been branded a traitor, he pulled out some fuckin’ line about ‘that’s what Captain Vandran would do,’ ” mutters Fjord. “Of all the goddamn nerve –”

“Is it?” asks Caleb, tilting his head. “What Vandran would do.”

“Well, I…” Fjord considers that, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t think so, I don’t think he was like that. But I think maybe he wanted me to be the kind of person that would.” His heart aches.

Caleb nods a little, grave. “Then I think you have your answer.”

\--

The ship on the horizon flies Clovis Concord colors, blue and gold bright under the noonday sun. Stacked crates on the deck indicate the hold is full, and from the southern route it takes, towards Marquet possibly, Fjord knows it’s probably laden with expensive goods. “All hands on deck!” he roars. “Skip to it and come about! We got a Concord ship in our sights, and she’s looking pretty!”

Waves crashing against her side, the _Tide’s Breath_ swerves around and gives chase. The Concord ship is faster, but not for long. “All right, you motherfuckers!” screeches Nott from the gundeck, so loud Fjord can hear her above decks. “I need hollow charges loaded! I need extra fuses on every motherfucking cannon! Get me hollow shells loaded with extra charges. I want four cannonballs on every cannon! Move!”

With the wind in his air and the salt on the wind and the exhilaration of the hunt pounding in his veins, Fjord grins.

Hours later, the Concord ship limps helplessly through the waves, her rudder shattered and main mast splintered. Payload brought on board the _Tide’s Breath,_ the crew begins to take it to the hold. The Concord crew was terrified, and terror made them desperate fighters. Divastiss is clearing the tables for four surgeries now. “Caleb?” says Fjord, the bleeding cut on his cheek stinging, one hand on the wheel of the _Tide’s Breath._ “Light ‘em up.”

Bringing sulfur and bat guano together in his hands, grim as death, Caleb smiles.

\--

The moon shines down on a gentle sea, the coastline only a night’s sail away. Caleb crosses the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ , towards the captain’s quarters. They’ve been making good speed, the pirates anxious to offload the haul from the Concord ship that’s burning a hole in the hull.

Metaphorically, of course.

Reaching the door, Caleb raps the back of his knuckles against the varnished wood, three times. “Fjord?” he says. “It’s me.”

Footsteps sound, and a moment later the door opens. “Hey,” says Fjord, smiling, and pulls Caleb inside for a kiss.

Caleb thinks he could kiss Fjord a thousand times and never tire of it, the deliberate, slightly rough weight of his mouth on his, the brush of Fjord’s callused hands through his hair, the way he can lean into Fjord with all he has and Fjord barely even rocks back, holding him close. He takes his time, exploring Fjord’s mouth with his tongue, brushing his fingers over the square corner of Fjord’s jaw and the dry buzz of stubble there. Making a little pleased noise in the back of his throat, Fjord wraps one arm tight around Caleb’s waist and cups the other under his jaw, opening his mouth wider to kiss Caleb back.

Tire of it, never, but Caleb has other business he needs to attend to first. Pulling back, he assesses Fjord – the streak of grey still visible in his black hair, the new scar on his cheek, the shape of his body visible under his loose white shirt and dark leather pants. “How are you doing?” he asks, more to start the conversation than because he doesn’t know.

Smiling, Fjord tucks a stray lock of Caleb’s hair behind his cheek. “Pretty fine, I’d say, how about you?”

“Good,” says Caleb, and he means it. Not always the case in the past, he thinks. “I, uh. I have something for you.”

Fjord raises his eyebrows as Caleb roots around in his spell pouch for the walnut-sized crystal orb, still wrapped tight in a scrap of fabric. “I made a promise,” says Caleb, holding it up in front of him. “I made a promise, and, ah, I try not to go back on my promises. Mostly. Not to you, anyway.” Clearing his throat, he takes one of Fjord’s hands and carefully places the orb in his palm. “I think you have earned this now.”

A strange, hungry expression dawns across Fjord’s face as he gradually unwraps the rag, exposing the golden crystal. In the lamplight of Fjord’s quarters, the facets wink and glitter, the carven pupil dark. “Tell you the truth,” says Fjord slowly, “I’d half-forgotten you had this. Maybe I wanted it out of my mind.” Picking up the crystal, he turns it from side to side, scrutinizing it. “Easier than coming face to face with it.”

“Well.” Caleb takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “It is yours now.” He squashes down the little worry of Fjord turning into someone like Avantika. This is Fjord, Fjord who he knows, Fjord who saved him. Caleb has decided to trust him. 

Fjord looks down at the orb a moment longer, and then with a smile, puts it in his pocket. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be slicing my palm open anytime soon,” he says.

Even in retelling, the Plank King’s actions were grim enough. “Ja, better not to,” says Caleb.

Fjord’s hands come down to Caleb’s hips, pulling him closer again with a bit of a sway. “Thank you, though,” he says. “For returning it to me. I know it’s not an easy decision.”

Caleb shrugs; the shift of Fjord’s chest muscles underneath the half-laced front of his shirt is very distracting. “I have made far worse decisions.”

“Don’t give me a chance to prove you wrong,” warns Fjord, but it’s light, teasing. Leaning in, he presses his lips to Caleb’s again. Caleb sinks into this kiss, wrapping one arm around Fjord’s shoulders and letting his back arch a little. His books are getting in the way, uncomfortably pressing into his ribs. Caleb strips off his coat, still kissing Fjord, and drops it to the floor. The leather holster he unbuckles and lowers to the ground more carefully, but still lets it lie.

He _wants_ , he’s been wanting for so long now, and though he would rather die than ask Fjord to take things faster than he’s ready for, Caleb cannot help the hungry press of his hips against Fjord’s, of using that friction to build the heat in his core. Fjord kisses back with equal fervor, bending Caleb back, the nubs of his tusks bumping against Caleb’s lip. His hand finds Caleb’s ass, and he squeezes.

A little frisson of desire runs up Caleb’s spine. Grabbing Fjord closer, he kisses him with enough heat to unbalance them, Fjord stepping back to keep upright. “Cay,” gasps Fjord.

Caleb slides his hand under Fjord’s shirt, over the wiry muscles of his torso. The healed scar on his stomach is a rough star-shaped patch, and Fjord shivers and twitches under his touch. “Ja?”

Fjord just makes another wordless sound and kisses Caleb more urgently, moving slowly but undeniably in the direction of the bed. Oh _please_ , thinks Caleb, and grabs Fjord’s hip, the ship rocking under them. Each of their breaths hang hot and heavy between their lips, feet stumbling over each other, Fjord’s fingers winding through Caleb’s hair. He pulls Caleb’s head back, baring his throat to mouth along the line of his neck, and Caleb groans, eyes fluttering shut.

Each press of Fjord’s lips to his skin is like a magnet, drawing all of Caleb to him, and a deep and needy whine lips out of Caleb’s throat. His ears immediately go hot in embarrassment but Fjord groans in turn, seizing Caleb’s face for a desperate, sloppy kiss. Wrapping his arms around Fjord’s neck, Caleb hoists his legs up around his waist, Fjord catching him under his thighs. Like this his face is level with Fjord’s, and Caleb takes full advantage of the position to kiss Fjord as thoroughly as he can until both of them are flushed and breathless, Caleb’s cock swelling in his pants.

“Cay,” whispers Fjord again, and warmth blooms through Caleb. He leans in again to kiss Fjord, this time gentle and soft though his breath trembles and his pulse pounds. “I…”

Longing twists Fjord’s voice for what he wants but doesn’t know how to ask for. “Ich will, dass du mich gegen die Wand drückst und das Leben aus mir raus fickst,” says Caleb, just to get the words out. _I want you to push me against the wall and fuck the life out of me._

Fjord’s dark brows contract. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” Caleb kisses him again.

But Fjord pulls back, still holding Caleb securely. “I want to know.” He gazes at Caleb steadily, a hunger behind his brown eyes but determination in the set of his mouth.

Taking a deep breath, Caleb nods and leans in, his teeth grazing Fjord’s earlobe. “I want you to fuck me,” he says softly.

Fjord full-body shivers so violently Caleb is scared of being dropped. But he hangs tight to Caleb, dragging his lips around to kiss him. Caleb knots his fingers in Fjord’s dark hair, thighs burning from staying clenched around Fjord. “Anything you ask,” says Fjord, throaty with desire, and brings Caleb over to the bed.

If their collapse onto the mattress is more than a little ungainly, Caleb isn’t going to complain, not with Fjord leaning over him to kiss him deep and slow. Kicking his boots off, Caleb yanks Fjord closer, starts pulling his shirt over his head. He’s waited too many weeks now for this, he doesn’t intend to wait a minute longer. And the sight of Fjord, chest bared, two-tone skin stretched over his wiry muscles, is so lovely it drives Caleb mad.

But Fjord looks down ruefully at his bared torso, fingers splayed to frame the gray-green scar on his abdomen. “It ain’t pretty,” he says, apologizing.

“Fjord.” Caleb puts a hand under Fjord’s chin, guiding him to meet his eyes. “I am not about to judge you for your scars.” He glances meaningfully at the bandages wrapping his forearm.

Cocking his head, Fjord considers his arm, and then begins to untie the knot, slowly unwrapping the bandages. Caleb freezes, staring at him, caught somewhere between panic and vulnerability. _He’s seen them before,_ he tells himself, as Fjord reveals the healed lines spiderwebbing his forearm. _He’s seen them before, he’s seen them before –_

The bandages fall away. Leaning in, Fjord kisses the silver scars on Caleb’s arm, up near his elbow. Caleb’s breath leaps to his throat, his hand shaking. _How can he stand to touch me there, is this forgiveness, is this a gift, what have I done to deserve this –_

Heedless of Caleb’s reaction, whether deliberately or by accident, Fjord continues to kiss along the skin of Caleb’s inner arm, all the way down to the wrist he holds, and then releases that arm to take the other one. He repeats the process, gentle and slow, unwinding the length of stained linen and drawing his lips along the scars up to Caleb’s hand, his nose skimming Caleb’s skin. Once there, Fjord presses Caleb’s palm to his mouth, noses at the delicate webbing between Caleb’s fingers, and slides his mouth down Caleb’s forefinger.

Red-hot desire yanks straight up through Caleb, pulling unbearably tight through his groin and stomach and into his throat. Wave of dark hair falling in his eyes, Caleb’s hand cradled carefully in his, Fjord slides the length of Caleb’s finger into his mouth, wet tongue pressing against Caleb’s skin. Caleb’s breath comes unsteady, his fingers curled against Fjord’s cheek, his other hand on Fjord’s thigh. Fjord pulls back just enough to get Caleb’s middle finger in his mouth and then draws down again, inexorable, insistent. “You are killing me, Fjord,” rasps Caleb.

Fjord glances down at the obvious tent in Caleb’s pants with a spark of mischief in his eyes and withdraws Caleb’s fingers, leaving them shiny and slick. “All part of the plan, darling.”

“You don’t have a plan,” Caleb snorts, ignoring the way his stomach still flutters at the pet name.

Raising his eyebrows, Fjord leans down and kisses Caleb again. The muscles of his back ripple under Caleb’s hands, and Caleb grinds up into him, is rewarded with Fjord pressing his body back down into Caleb’s. “Now why would you say that?” murmurs Fjord, kissing Caleb’s throat.

Caleb tries for a witty retort, but each touch of Fjord’s lips to his sensitive skin scrambles his brain further until a complete sentence seems unattainable, let alone something smart. “Gott, Fjord,” he pants, reverting to Zemnian, “genug, fick mich –”

“You know I can’t understand that, right?” grumbles Fjord. But he seems to get the idea when Caleb fumbles at his belt, unbuckling it, and starts stripping apart the laces of his pants. While Fjord disrobes, Caleb pulls off his own shirt, tossing it to the floor. His belt and pants and other affects join it in a crumpled pile. Naked now except for the amulet around his neck, Caleb cups Fjord’s neck with his hand and draws him in for another kiss, tongue sliding against his, his heart racing, anticipation and desire coiling inside him –

But after a moment, Fjord pulls back a little, just enough to break the kiss. “I must admit, I don’t have a lot of experience in this area,” he confesses, looking past Caleb’s shoulder.

This surprises Caleb, who is sure that tall, dark, and handsome Fjord could have his pick of any partner he chose. Certainly Avantika was a willing participant. “With men, or just in general?” says Caleb.

“In – in general.” Fjord’s cheeks flush faintly brown, and he grimaces.

“Well, I have more than enough experience for the both of us,” says Caleb dryly, wanting desperately to get back to the grinding.

But this only makes Fjord frown more. “You say that like you mean somethin’ more.”

Damn it. “I needed money, while I was on the run, in a way that didn’t reveal who I was or what I could do,” he says, hoping Fjord will leave the topic and move on. “Some ways are more effective than others.”

Fjord’s mouth twists unhappily. It really wasn’t that bad, I’ve been used much worse, Caleb wants to say, but he suspects it will not help the situation. Instead, he leans up, kissing Fjord softly. “Forget about it,” he says into Fjord’s ear, low and throaty, and Fjord shudders. “Forget about everything except the here and now.”

Fjord swallows hard, his hand caressing slowly over Caleb’s back. “I got you,” Fjord murmurs, whether reassuring himself or Caleb, or maybe both. His lips find Caleb’s again, his weight bearing Caleb down into the mattress, the friction of his belly and erection against Caleb’s maddening. Fjord’s kisses grow more and more desperate, his breathing more ragged, the roll of his hips against Caleb’s more insistent, and Caleb decides, if they’re doing this, they’re doing it properly –

“A moment,” he murmurs into Fjord’s mouth, taking all his self-control not to lean back into him. “Just a moment.”

Fjord pulls back, weight on his trembling arms, and a thread of confusion on his face. That confusion deepens, and then clears as Caleb rolls over to retrieve his spell pouch, digging around until he retrieves the vial of sweet oil. “You – you keep that on you always?” says Fjord, sitting back on his heels.

“Not for this specific purpose, no, but it does come in handy.” The glass bottle is still mostly full of clear yellow-green oil, and Caleb hands it to Fjord. “You know what you are doing?”

“I got the general idea.” Fjord unstoppers the bottle and sniffs it before dripping a generous amount onto his first two fingers. “Stop me if I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong?”

“Ja.” Caleb considers positions, settles himself on his forearms and knees –

The first press of Fjord’s oil-slick fingers on his rim makes Caleb jump and curl his toes, the touch always more intimate than he expects. Closing his eyes, Caleb focuses only on the gentle stretch as Fjord pushes slowly into him, draws back, pushes in again. “This all right?” says Fjord.

Caleb nods, pushing back slightly. “Mm.”

Fjord’s strokes grow a little bolder, a little more confident. “There,” pants Caleb, when Fjord finds the sweet spot. “Right there, Fjord, ja –”

Fjord makes a dark, hungry noise that makes Caleb desperately wish he could see his face, instead of the rumpled pillow and blankets before him. But before Caleb can twist around, Fjord leans down so his chest presses against Caleb’s back, his lips traveling over the side of Caleb’s neck, his thighs solid against Caleb’s. “Like this?” Fjord breathes, unsteady.

It aches in the best way possible, driving Caleb mad, and Caleb groans and rocks back into him. “Ja…” Each stroke of Fjord’s winds Caleb tighter, pulling the air out of him, his cock hardening, sweat beading on his temples.

Fjord, too, is slick with sweat against Caleb’s back, his breathing harsh. “Tell me when.”

“ _God,_ Fjord, whenever you want, _please –_ ”

Cool air rushes over Caleb’s skin as Fjord sits back, withdrawing his fingers, one hand still anchored on Caleb’s shoulder. A new touch nudges in against Caleb, warm and slick with oil, and he pants and twitches as Fjord slides in, infuriatingly slow and careful. Caleb twists over his shoulder to look up at him, at the concentration on his face and his pupils blown wide with lust, his hands on Caleb’s skin, the sweat beading his forehead and chest, and unreality hits Caleb like a sudden, vivid brick. Who is he, that this happens to him, that he gets to have sex with this man, good things like this don’t happen to _Caleb Widogast_ –

Panting, Fjord tries a thrust that presses deeper into Caleb than his fingers did, and Caleb grunts and drops his head, breath shortening. “Like that?” manages Fjord.

Caleb nods, hair hanging in his eyes, and in case Fjord didn’t see that, rolls his hips encouragingly. The way he moves _around_ Fjord, his warmth inside him, sends a brief rush of dizzy blood to Caleb’s head. He swears he can feel his pulse pounding in his own cock.

Building in vigor, Fjord rocks his hips forward, each thrust just a little deeper, just a little faster, just a little _more_. Caleb groans again, sparks flying off his skin where Fjord touches his ribs, his hips, his own breath sounds loud and jagged in his ears, the bed creaking with their movement –

Fjord leans in again over Caleb, one hand coming up to encircle Caleb’s throat. “Why don’t you sit up for me, darling,” he murmurs into Caleb’s ear, deep and husky.

And Fjord sits back, pulling Caleb back up with him until Caleb is sinking down onto Fjord’s cock, his head tilted back to the ceiling, his knees and toes pressing into the mattress. Eyes closed, Caleb groans and turns his head to kiss Fjord, Fjord’s broad fingers still cupping Caleb’s exposed neck. Fjord rocks his hips up into Caleb, breath rapidly shortening; Caleb reaches back to sink his fingers into Fjord’s hair, each thrust pulsing through his entire body. And then Fjord wraps his hand around Caleb’s aching cock and Caleb loses himself, loses himself to Fjord inside him and around him, Fjord’s panting loud in his ear, the rough firmness of his touch, the heat of his skin, the taste of salty sweat on Fjord’s lips, the smell of his musk. It’s all _Fjord_ , reaching deeper and deeper inside him until Caleb has no secrets left, all the dark swirling layers of his insides turned double and exposed outside, helpless, defenseless, at the mercy of a hand on his throat and a hand on his cock and his entire being laid bare before Fjord, Fjord, _Fjord –_

Caleb jerks and cries out as he comes, tightening and releasing around Fjord in spasms, his hand clenching in Fjord’s hair. “Oh, hell,” moans Fjord, and then he comes too, drawn-out groans muffled in Caleb’s shoulder, warmth leaking into Caleb and running down along his thighs. Cock twitching as he expends his last, Caleb sags back against Fjord, chest heaving. “Gut gemacht,” he says fuzzily, not able to wrap his brain around Common. “Sehr Gut.”

Breathing heavily, Fjord settles; Caleb can feel his heart hammering in his chest against Caleb’s back. “And that means…?”

“Very good.” Caleb twists his head around to kiss Fjord, both of them clumsy and tired, lips as tender as a bruised plum. Slowly, he pulls off of Fjord, sensitive skin stinging a little. They’ve made a mess on the blankets, he notes without much regret.

Leaning forward, Fjord cups Caleb’s face in his hands and pulls him close for another gentle kiss. “Thank you,” murmurs Fjord.

Through the haze, Caleb laughs softly. “For what?”

A shamefaced smile lights Fjord’s face, and he brushes back Caleb’s sweaty hair. “I don’t rightly know,” he says. “Just seemed like the thing to say.”

After they clean up as best they can, they lie down together on the bed, Caleb curling comfortably around Fjord. He feels more relaxed than he has in a long, long time, pleasant languor seeping through his bones. “Are you – will you stay the night?” asks Fjord, hesitant.

Rising up on one elbow, Caleb frowns a little at Fjord. “Of course I am,” he says. “Why would I not?”

Fjord shrugs, deliberately careless, but his hand rests on the small of Caleb’s back. “Just didn’t know if you wanted to, is all.”

Leaning over, Caleb kisses Fjord, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to show he means it. “Why would I go anywhere without you?” he murmurs.

By now he recognizes Fjord’s breathless half-laugh as one of relief. “You tell me,” says Fjord, cupping the back of his head, and kissing him. “Gods know I could come up with a reason or two.”

But he doesn’t, and Caleb doesn’t either, instead lying back down nestled against Fjord’s side with his head on his chest. And as the light of the oil lamp dims low, the flame sputtering out, Caleb closes his eyes and falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Fjord’s heart.

\--

In Fjord’s dream, he comes up through freezing surf, gasping for air as the ocean waves break across his naked body. He staggers to his feet under a night sky, stars dotting the midnight vault and the ocean glimmering faintly underneath them.

Waist-deep in the sea, Fjord looks out to the distance. Ships approach, eight, twelve, sixteen. An armada, far away but drawing closer. His heart pounds hard in his chest with apprehension. The ships close the distance too rapidly to be real, their sails and hulls looming over him, but Fjord cannot move.

Silently, a massive wave sweeps over the armada, dousing Fjord as well. When he surfaces, the ships have been shattered into a thousand glittering shards floating on the surface of the water.

A star in the sky blinks.

Breath catching in his throat, Fjord looks up.

The stars are yellow now, and round. Slit-pupiled. A thousand golden eyes looking down at him from the velvety blackness. And the moon –

Where the moon should be, a great eye opens, dominating the sky. Its yellow beam shines down on Fjord like a spotlight, turning the water around him to liquid gold.

_WATCHING._

“Watching for what?” gasps Fjord.

The light of the eye is not only bright, but hot. Steam begins to rise off the ocean around him, Fjord’s skin warming uncomfortably. “Why?” he shouts up at the yellow eye. “Why are you watching me?” The heat grows and grows, the steam scalding him –

Fjord wakes up panting, skin damp with sweat. It takes him a second to remember where he is, on the _Tide’s Breath_ in his quarters, with Caleb asleep in the bed beside him –

Caleb.

Turning carefully so as not to wake him, Fjord looks over at Caleb, lying on his stomach and fast asleep, one arm flung over Fjord’s torso. Many of the harsh lines of his face are smoothed away by sleep, the constant tension he carries gone; he looks peaceful. Trusting. His mouth hangs open slightly, hair tumbling around his shoulders.

Sighing, Fjord sinks back into the mattress, closing his eyes. His hand closes around Caleb’s elbow, a gesture of semi-conscious protection. Slowly, he falls back asleep, lulled by the creaking of the ship and the sea always, always, crashing gently around him.

\--

With a start, Caleb wakes, a sudden alert prickling him. Holding his breath, he waits, but the captain’s quarters are dark and silent, Fjord slumbering peacefully beside him.

Again, that sense of wariness, and this time Caleb recognizes Frumpkin, telling him, _Look here, listen here,_ from his watch on the deck. Caleb moves as smoothly and silently as possible, sliding out of the bed and over Fjord, night air cool on his naked skin. Though he mutters and stirs in his sleep, Fjord does not wake.

Retrieving his shirt and pants, Caleb gets dressed and stuffs his spell pouch in his pocket. His books are still on the floor with his coat, and Caleb considers them. He knows the spells he needs for now, better to leave them safe here. Caleb opens the door silently and slips outside.

Moonlight bathes the deck, clear enough to see by, the Menagerie Coast a dim suggestion on the horizon. Frumpkin comes running up to Caleb, who picks him up, already knowing what his cat saw: the slender dark-haired figure at the railings, straining to turn the pulley and lower one of the longboats.

Approaching cautiously, Caleb recognizes Sabian, and suspicion prickles all over his skin. _Go wake Fjord,_ he tells Frumpkin, and sets the cat back down. Frumpkin runs, back to the captain’s quarters, pawing open the nearly-shut door. “What are you doing?” calls Caleb, low, sparks dancing on his fingers.

Sabian whips around, eyes wild. “She promised me,” he says, shaking with energy. Nerves? Anger? “She promised me the _Tide’s Breath_ if I defended her in court, said I’d be the captain, and _now_ look what’s happened, but if I can’t have the ship, then the half-breed can’t eith– ”

The ship explodes.

\--

Orange and white heat and a concussive blast jolt Fjord out of sleep, sending him flying among planks of wood and pain streaks his skin and before he can breathe he falls into dark water, cloth tangled around him, dragging him down, his limbs ensnared, jagged wood scraping him. Fjord struggles frantically in the roiling water, trying to kick himself free as more pieces plummet into the water around him, _what’s happening, oh God, Caleb, CALEB_ –

With an underwater crash a massive dark shape plunges down, bearing Fjord with it. A panicked bubble leaves his lips as he swims away frantically, down, to the side, he hardly knows, and a great log that can only be the main mast of the _Tide’s Breath_ falls perilously close to striking his head. Fjord’s lungs burn, his limbs failing, and he tries to hold out but his bodies instincts are stronger than his and he inhales –

Fjord chokes, struggling furiously for the surface, but he can’t seem to move upwards. If anything he sinks, the water growing darker and darker around him, silent, terrible, _watching._ He thrashes, reaching desperately up above him. He can’t move. The weight is too much. He can’t move.

He sinks.

He sinks deeper and deeper into blackness, failing limbs drifting. As he does, a tiny speck of light appears, coming nearer. A yellow light. The crystal orb, falling down towards him, glowing amongst the dark water.

With the last of his fading strength, Fjord reaches up and wraps his fingers around the orb, and then the darkness claims him.

END OF PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess that's what you call going out with a _bang_.
> 
> \--
> 
> If playlists are your thing, check out the playlist I made for this fanfiction series (available on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meb_4cEriyw&list=PLXg9_kEqZqcJ4vT94tb8dQPVvfyitEP1Y&index=2&t=0s) and [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ligdjdiOujTIuB84wofTu?si=2JzQ9ks7TaqVJyPO0mqtnQ)) for some general Widofjord vibes and maybe some hints as to where this series is going. 😉
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
